


Heal First Thyself

by Jarakrisafis



Series: Oath and Covenant [5]
Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: Gang Rape, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, POV First Person, Psychological Torture, Spark Sex, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-10-31
Updated: 2013-06-15
Packaged: 2017-11-17 11:51:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 32,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/551239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jarakrisafis/pseuds/Jarakrisafis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>War is not a pleasant place. Honour is not a virtue, just something to exploit. Mercy is a weakness that cannot be given. In war, anything is legal as long as your faction wins. And some will go to any lengths to ensure they are on the victors side.</p><p>Pt.3 of Oath and Covenant</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Damnum absque injuria - Hoist

**Author's Note:**

> A huge thank you to Dogstar for the constant encouragement, beta'ing and prodding. And to Beautiful_Infinity and ShaaraSeeker for ideas and encouragement.
> 
> Original idea was based on two prompts from the LJ Transformers kinkmeme: [One](http://tfanonkink.livejournal.com/7561.html?thread=7612297#t7612297) & [Two](http://tfanonkink.livejournal.com/10462.html?thread=9939422#t9939422)
> 
> This is a triptych story, from the POV of the Autobot medics (and three of the spec ops crew who snuck in).

I have done all I can. The medbay is ready, Primus forbid that I'll need it, but the chance of not having to make use of its facilities ran out long ago. I dare not voice the other option, that not even the medbay will be of any use. But such thoughts come more often as time passes. It is a waiting game with little chance of success.

No. I need to stay positive, I'm not sure I can accept anything else.

We had long known we were targets; medics could make or break an army. Without us, forces weaken, mechs that could be saved meeting Primus, warriors fighting at less that optimal efficiency, wounds rusted and festering, morale falling to the Pit. No, we aren't just targets to remove from the equation like a good fighter. We are assets.

Even amongst the enemy our coding will prompt us to save the lives of guttering sparks placed in front of our optics. For that alone we are valuable.

But it is no secret that we have access codes to firewalls, to secret specs for mods and all sorts of data that could be used against the mechs we have treated. With those Megatron could destroy the Autobots piece by agonising piece and we would be powerless to stop it. And now that possibility has become a reality. I've spent rechargeless cycles already recoding the mechs of the Ark, resetting firewalls and access codes and I'm barely half way through the crew.

I doubt that Ratchet will break. He's been captured before. He will delete what information he can before he gives it up, and the rest he will hold out long enough for me to change things. But he is not the only one. No. Pure bad luck that they took First Aid too. A fluke that Ratchet had been seeing to Aid after Defensor took a hit.

It had been a big battle, all three of us called onto the field, the need for us now greater than one of us staying to wait for the more urgent casualties.

* * *

::Medic to quadrant four. Hound's down, Breaker's covering.:: The glyphs are short and sharp, but still clear and precise, as if the sender isn't anywhere near the pulse and sizzle of energy weapons and the thud and crack of detonations. Probably Prowl or Mirage, even in the most trying of circumstances their communications remain calm.

::I'm on it.:: I don't look up from Windcharger's internals as Ratchet takes the call.

It has been a while since a short skirmish has turned into a no holds barred battle; the front wedge of the Autobot forces are rallied to Prime as he holds Megatron back. Defensor is combined and holding the left flank while the right is under the rifles of several of the Autobots best sharpshooters. The whine of jet engines passing overhead is loud, the smoke from explosions obscuring the forms and I duck down, putting my frame across the minibot below me, my armour is far stronger than his. There is no way to tell whether it is one of the aerielbots or a seeker making another pass to try and finish what they have started.

Unfurling myself from my defensive crouch I dare a quick glance up, checking that the front line is still holding and I am not going to have to pull back. Beside me Bumblebee lets out a ragged vent as the jet engines fade, the dogfight moving away again. The yellow minibot is still favouring his right leg and I reach out a hand to give him a comforting pat as I tie up the last of the cut energon lines in Windcharger. He is no longer in any danger of offlining but moving won't help him.

::Remain here, pull him out of stasis only if you have no choice.:: Bee nods at me as he crouches down, prepared to wait out the rest of the battle here and hope that the lines of engagement don't move.

::Mark Hound as priority three.:: My triage list automatically updates, logging the data Ratchet is streaming, adding to an already long list of priority three, combat impairing but non life threatening repairs that we have to see to. 

::Acknowledged. Downgrade Windcharger from priority two.:: There is nothing more I can do for him out here. He is stable, but spending more time getting him back online would be a waste of resources when I could be seeing to mechs that could contribute to the fight.

Pulling the list up I cross-check last known locations of mechs before setting out, weaving across the battlefield, still wary of seekers taking pot-shots. Smokescreen barely gives me a second glance beyond the quick ID ping and visual check to verify that I am not a Decepticon sneaking up on them as I dive into the hole they are entrenched in. Bluestreak's ID ping comes a brief second later, his optics not wavering from his rifle sight.

::Report?:: Smokey asks as I remove his pauldron, he keeps his attention on the enemy as he wields his gun one handed. I quickly swap out the mangled gear that has rendered his arm inoperable and give his pauldron several solid bashes to remove the dent. It isn't pretty, but it will stop the thick plate from pressing into the joint and grinding the new gear to a useless chunk of metal.

::No casualties so far.:: I reply as I latch his armour back into place and he obligingly rotates his arm for me. A quick thanks is tossed my way as he turns back to the fight.

I don't stay to watch, waiting for a heavy volley from Blue and Smokey to force the 'Cons to cover so that I can dodge away. A crash and a ground rattling thud as I scramble out of the hole let me know that something big has just hit the ground.

::Defensor's down.:: That would explain the small earthtremor.

::Location Hoist?:: Ratchet snaps out almost immediately.

::Right flank, sector three.::

::I'm closer, I'll call if I need you.:: I send an acknowledging ping as a flash of white near the centre of the battlefield lets me know that Ratchet is already on his way to the downed gestalt.

I drop down next to Perceptor, he obligingly holds out his arm as he keeps his optics and his gun turned towards the sky. “Seekers?” I ask, the scientist is not a fighter and had been left to ensure we weren't ambushed from behind and given that so far the majority of injuries to the back ranks were from the slagging winged menaces it seemed like a logical assumption.

He nods as I finish removing the slagged up components from his elbow joint. I can tell he hasn't got full mobility back, but at least it's better than it being flash welded into one position. Finished I look up my next patient and start the process of getting there without becoming a target.

::Hoist, get over here.:: The glyphs are terse, almost panicked, not something I often see from Ratchet. ::Hot Spot is priority one, First Aid's priority two.:: I hiss as I change direction, ignoring the automated triage list that helpfully suggests Hot Spot be left. Normally he would be, priority one cases take too long to fix to be worth the effort, but Hot Spot is _gestalt_. Without him we won't be losing just one mech, but five. A snapped gestalt bond can take vorns to fully heal and even longer for the survivors to function again; more so with Spot being the team leader.

I drop to my knees beside Ratchet, nudging Streetwise out of the way, taking over the energon lines he was patching up. The armour welded across his chest a clear indication that he had taken a hit near his spark chamber.

:Finish up here, I'll see to Aid.:: Ratchet all but crawls the short distance to our third medic and I return to dealing with Hot Spot.

A slight whump of displaced air makes me glance up, crouching over Hot Spot as I pull my rifle out of subspace. ::Ratch, down!:: My warning overlaps with Jazz's call to watch out and Ratchet hits the deck, curling around First Aid as Skywarp drops towards them, and then the energy from my rifle passes harmlessly through empty space.

I continue to stare at the empty air where they had been before Jazz pokes me, the sharp rap to my helm as he shoots past bringing my attention back to where it should be, on Hot Spot and the rest of the battle.

::Hoist.:: I know what Prowl wants almost as soon as the glyphs appear, the impatience well concealed and I envy his ability to treat emotions like sensory data while his battle-computer is running. Being able to log and then ignore my shock would be useful right now, of course I'd have to unarchive and deal with it later, but later would be when the danger has passed.

I don't have that luxury and I reply with a calm I certainly don't feel ::On it Prowl.:: I have to will my armour to settle, my weapons to flip back into subspace. Being at full battle alert won't reassure my patients, not when the Decepticons are retreating and we should be able to relax slightly.

I already have the list of injuries and it is a matter of moments to arrange them all for transport. Skyfire picking up Hot Spot, Windcharger and myself while the rest will have to get themselves home or wait for Skyfire to do a second run. Not what I would prefer to do, making them return on their own with painful injuries, but it won't offline them and I need the time before they all arrive on mass. I have Hot Spot to keep stable and then Windcharger to deal with and only myself to do it.

I've never been so glad that Ratchet forced me into taking all those lessons, long ago now, to deal with things that a general practitioner wouldn't normally see in a clinic, but are all too common in war; delicate wiring and protoform repair. He generally takes those on, while I deal with the simpler injuries, however I can nonetheless complete such complicated repairs when necessary. Clearly now is one of those times. Where normally it is to Ratchet that this duty falls and I am the rock that he can fall back against once all is done. But now I am on my own.

I push the thoughts away, I can deal with them later, now I need to finish with my first two patients as I put Windcharger down on a berth, Skyfire gently draping Hot Spot onto another before striding back out to pick up another load of mechs. Time blurrs as I work, the raised voices as the rest of the crew wearily stumbling in barely gathering a glance until I am done. Then it is merely another set of things to deal with.

So many things remind me that I am now alone, no-one helpfully passing tools, my comm channel is silent, no snapped orders and frantic requests for help and several times earlier I found myself asking the empty medical comm. link for something before catching myself. But what really drives it home is the silence of the patients themselves now that the critical repairs have been completed. By this point, providing there have been no casualties and there are no mechs still in danger of deactivating, med bay is usually full of laughter and jokes.

But not now. Hound is still awake, he is usually chatting with whoever is nearby and lucid, today he isn't saying anything. Ironhide is pretending to be offline in a corner as he waits for me to see to his ankle, his cannons give him away as they spin idly in agitation, his usual sarcasm absent as he broods. And the twins are watching me, the lack of complaints unnerving, as if they have never realised just how dependable Ratchet is; they whinge, he snarls, they laugh, he growls and in the end they leave before he undoes all his own work by reformatting their alternate modes into the choice human appliances of the week.

But I'm not Ratchet and they seem lost as I work my way around the room, no mech sure how to act now that the familiar presence is no longer here.

Done with the injuries, I take a moment to rest, dodging into Ratchets, into _the_ office to recalibrate my systems, bleeding out the tension from my joints as I feel myself slump. There is only one thing left to do now, and not something I can put off. Drawing myself up I stride out, across the medbay, feeling optics following me as I let myself into one of the isolation rooms.

“Hoist?” I put an arm around Groove, feeling him burrow into my side, his field echoing with the tremulousness expressed in his vocaliser. “What do we do?”

Across the berth Blades looks away, unwilling to show that he is just as afraid, while Streetwise presses against my other side, his optics firmly locked onto Hot Spot's still form.

“He'll be in stasis for a while, you need to rest and refuel, you won't help by falling offline.” I tell them, feeling a swell of guilt and remorse from both frames pressing against me as I modulate my field into soothing them.

“We need to be here when he wakes up.” Blades says and something tells me he isn't just speaking about Hot Spot. Although I don't have to tell them that the Decepticons will no doubt mute the gestalt bond if they have any sense.

I finally meet his optics, as he raises his helm, daring me to contradict him and throw them out. “I know.” He jerks, surprise catching him off guard. But I don't think he realises at this moment that this is by far the worst injury any of them have taken, and on top of that they have a member of their team missing. “Streetwise.” He twists his helm upwards, “go get some energon and bring some back for your brothers.” I can see him waver, torn between staying and leaving, lost without Hot Spot's comforting command presence. In the end logic wins out and he slips out the door..

“Groove, come help me a moment.” He has always been the most amiable and he follows with only a quick, pointed glance at Blades. I know what that means: call me back if anything changes, but he needn't worry, we aren't going very far. Groove works out what I am doing as I grab one of the emergency portable berths and unlock the magnetic clamps to allow it to be moved. It nestles into the corner of the isolation room, out of the way of my equipment, but close enough that they might feel willing enough to actually rest.

Streetwise smiles at me when he returns to find us locking it into place. “Thank you.” He says as he puts the cubes onto the small berthside table.

I pull him into a quick hug before slipping back out, letting the door close softly behind myself, leaving them to keep a watch over Hot Spot. And of course, to wait for First Aid to come back online if the 'Cons haven't blocked the link.

“Jazz?” I straighten up, aware that I am radiating my exhaustion in my posture, let alone in my energy field, but I hadn't expected the saboteur to be lurking in the office. “What did you do?” I can't help the bite in my tone, every injury is logged for a reason, no matter how small and insignificant. The last thing I need are bots flouting the rules and coming into medbay with injuries that would have been a simple fix but now require more in-depth work.

“I'm not injured.” His protest is quiet, none of his normal flair as I confirm his statement with an almost automatically ran scan. It takes me a moment to place what I am seeing as I connect the vocal parameters and posture. He's running under heavy mission protocols.

“What do you need then?”

“Medical access codes need changing.” Of course they do. I knew that. It just hadn't registered yet. I'll have to manually reset the access codes for every Autobot currently on Earth.

I gesture wearily to the desk, I doubt Jazz will mind the unorthodox makeshift berth. Unspooling my connection cable I click it home in the helpfully opened medical port under his clavicle armour.

 **Jazz** If the sensation of an irritated foot tapping could be conveyed by cable I would be doing so.

 **Oh, sorry.** A huge arrow materialises in the virtual reality room I am in. Slagging special operations. Most processors are laid out the same way, data archived in shelves and boxes, the virtual imagery simply conveying the basic folders and subroutines that create a personality matrix.

But some mechs aren't content with the usual archive room they just have to modify it. **Helps prevent hacking** Jazz helpfully says as he picks up on my thoughts. And scrap, I know that, really, it just doesn't help now when I want nothing more than a place to recharge, not to spend time fighting my way through his mental defences.

He probably picked up that thought too but he is wise enough to stay silent as I reset his codes. **Done.** I say as I withdraw my processing threads back into my own processor before disconnecting.

I jump, but some part of me is unsurprised to have Mirage phase into view right beside me and hop up onto the space Jazz has just left. I don't bother to hide my unease as I plug in. While Jazz uses misdirection to hide important data; images and sound files collected from hundreds of different alien cultures all put together in a clash of conflicting data, Mirage simply isn't there.

Unnerving doesn't cover it as he reads like a mech who has undergone a full processor wipe, down to base coding. Then the moment is gone, precisely ordered data phasing into view.

The processor is a strange thing, such control as Jazz and Mirage have is rare, definitely not unusual, but at the essence of it, virtual reality is only what a mech can imagine, most mechs simply have no reason to adjust it as it requires concentration,attention to detail and the effort is often too much for most to bother with. After all, this is all beneath the standard, or in special ops case, non standard firewalls and for most having another get past the firewalls is a rare chance. But for special ops line of work it is an all too real possibility.

**You're also done.**

**Thank you.** the glyphs, a bright, sculpted silver-gold are quintessential nobility, not even the war enough to dim Mirage's upbringing.

“You're heading out now?” I tried to calculate how long it had been and realised that without any injuries both of them could have already had a full recharge cycle before reporting here.

“Yes.” Jazz lets one clawed hand rest against my chest, EMF mingling briefly with mine before he is out the door, Mirage falling in without an audible command, leaving me alone with only the faint hum of machinery for company.

“Hoist. Hoist? Come on mech, wake up.” I hiss as I am pulled out of recharge by an insistent voice and an energy field pushing against my own, drawing me out of the comforting darkness my processor was languishing in.

“Jack?” For a long moment I have no idea what he is doing in the medbay office, nor for that matter what I am doing recharging at Ratchet's desk, until my memory core finishes booting up, the aborted defragmentation leaving me scrambling to put events in order.

“Sorry, I know you've only just got into recharge, but Prime needs you in the briefing room.”

“Now?” I ask as I ping my internal chronometer to confirm that I have barely had time to cycle down. I stretch, joints protesting as they unlock, gears grinding against each other, reminding me that I still haven't had a chance to get to the washracks. If the dirt inside my gears is bad the outside is worse, mud and organic matter up to my shins and splattered over most of the rest of my plating, the shine of grease and oil, the lavender of processed and the raw pink of unprocessed energon, the pale blue of coolant, all layered and dried over my frame. “Time for a sidetrip to the washracks?” I ask as I shudder, I hadn't realised I looked quite this bad.

He is silent a moment, helm tipped to one side before he nods, “A quick detour.” He holds his hands out and I grasp them with my own, they are about the only part of me that is clean, cleansed between every patient.

I would have liked a long soak, letting the cleanser seep into my plating and wash out the dust and grime from beneath them, but whatever the problem is, Wheeljack has clearly been sent to fetch me now, not later, and I have to make do with washing away the most noticeable of the dirt. I am still slightly wet as I enter the briefing room, Wheeljack not following me in. Prime and Prowl are already seated together, helms bent over a datapad and a small box.

“Hoist.” Prime says as the pad is set aside and the box pushed in my direction. “I need you to analyse the... contents.” He stops me as I reach out, his hand covering mine, before he shakes his head, letting go and sitting back, the weight of Cybertron seemingly resting on his shoulders.

The lid feels heavy in my hand as I lift it, no matter that it was created from a light Earth made alloy, it weighs far more to my processor. Warning errors flash across my vision and I force my venting system to restart, I hadn't even realised that I had paused it.

Two shards of armour rest in the box and I carefully reach in to pull one out. Without the colour still present I can't know until I scan it who it had belonged to.

This is old practice, from long past when Cybertron had been ruled by the clans and houses. Each clade vying for power while the Prime ruled over them all. Prisoner exchanges had been common, sending a section of armour back to the house to whom the mech belonged was brutal but effective. It was a reminder that the mech was potentially in danger, but it also served to show that they were still online. The degradation of the chromonanites in the outer layer could be analysed and an estimate of when the armour was detached from the mech - an _online mech_ \- could be given.

I feel my visor snap into place, scanning options flashing in front of my vision until I initiate the correct ones. I let them run their course, the raw data compiling in a temporary folder as I sort through it.

Silver-white nanites, began to degrade eight point six human hours ago. Ratchet then.

I place the shard down and pick up the second, triggering a second set of scans.

Cream-white, began to degrade eight point two human hours ago. First Aid.

Across the table Prime meets my gaze and I nod. A confirmation of many different things. That they are without a doubt in Decepticon hands, that they were still online when these were taken, that whatever demand they had asked for was what they wanted and were willing to go to any lengths for. The revival of an old barbaric practice makes that quite clear.

“What do they want?” I ask when neither of them speak, each staring at the pad laid on the table.

Prime lifts his head, sorrow cloaking him even with his battle-mask in place, his optics bright with emotion he will not allow to slip from his control. “More than I am willing to give.”

Beside him Prowl is silent, sensor panels held high, tight, the lack of movement not showing that he has no emotions as so many mechs claim, but that they are so high because he is holding them still, just as he is holding his emotion back.

I am certain that I don't want to know just what the Decepticons, what Megatron is demanding, but a small part of my spark demands to know what is worth their lives. “Sir?”

Prime holds my gaze even as his hands curl, fingers denting his own palms. “Megatron wants the Matrix.”

I snarl, wrenching my optics from his, gaze unerringly falling on the small innocuous box before I offline my optics. That _is_ too high a price to pay. How many more would extinguish if Megatron were to get his hands on the power of the Matrix? I wouldn't want to make a guess.

I turn, letting myself out without waiting to be dismissed, Wheeljack falling in as a silent shadow as we return to the medbay. He doesn't say a word, even his indicators barely flashing in a muted glow, as I check the readouts on the berths in the main ward and quietly open the door to Hot Spots room. Streetwise looks up but doesn't say anything, Blades and Groove are curled up on the spare berth, deep in recharge.

I wearily settle back into the office chair, pulling the reports I was doing before I fell into recharge, logging all the injuries I had treated and noting any follow up treatment they may need.

“You need to rest.” I startle, armour flaring, I had forgotten Wheeljack hadn't left. “Those aren't essential.” I make a grab for them as he whisks them out from beneath my hand but I catch nothing but air.

“I can't.” I brace my helm on my hands. “I need to start changing access codes for firewalls.” Wheeljack jerks upright, a static filled curse escaping his vocaliser. His fins flash, as he thinks before settling into a dull red glow. “Come here.” I unspool my data cord and he opens his medical port before I can even ask, “I might as well start with you.” 

Coding changed I send him back out with a datapad and orders to find the mechs listed and send them to me. With a whole crew to do I was going to have to prioritise. First the command crew, then front line warriors, then rest of the fighters and lastly the usual noncombatants.

It is a big list.

* * *

Another box.

I hadn't realised how much time had passed by as I rounded up the crew and changed their coding and kept an optic on the last of my patients before I kicked them out to go recover in their own berths(with the exception of the Protectobots who have turned my isolation ward into a den as they watch over Spot).

At least the patrol who ran into the Seeker knew better than to open it this time and had brought it back to the Ark as quick as they could. Behind me now I can feel the energy fields overlapping mine as they wait for me to open the lid, waiting for me to do my job.

Another piece of cream-white armour, although different from the last piece they sent. And a sharp spike of slate grey. I hiss in a quick vent of atmosphere as I realise what that is, what it can only be and I ran another analysis on the white armour as something nags at me. 

I don't meet the optics of any of the mechs behind me, my gaze is rooted to the two small chunks of inert metal on the table. “They were still online when these were taken.”

The rattle of metal is loud in the quiet of medbay, the tension which they had been holding in check with every carefully cycled vent released with my words. “Jazz and Mirage are working on it.” Prime says as he lays a quick hand on my shoulder, reassurance flowing from his field to curl around mine in a brief embrace before he leaves, his steps heavy.

The others follow and I finally let my shoulders slump, my armour rattling as I reached out to take hold of one of the shards, only realising that my hand is shaking too much when I am unable to grasp it.

“They will not return until they have them.” My spark nearly jumps out of its housing at the voice behind me and I whirl around, battle protocols already spinning up.

Prowl.

Who else?

He can hide his field almost as well as Jazz and Mirage, pulling it in so close to his frame that you'd have to touch him to find it. He doesn't look any different than normal, no sign that he is angry, hurt, worried, only the calm conviction in his voice as he states something intangible like it is fact. “They will bring them home.” He doesn't wait for a response, leaving as quietly as he had remained, living up to his name. 

I didn't tell him that they better make it quick. I know, rationally speaking, that Jazz and Mirage would be working as fast as they could to locate them, but it doesn't help to still my spark as I clasp the shards of armour to my chest. I hadn't told them anything more than I needed to. I slump into the chair in the office, feeling it conform to my frame as I lean back, my optics blurring as I scan the chunks again.

Same results, not like I expected them to change, I was just hoping that I was mistaken.

There are no words, neither Cybertronian or human to properly express what I am feeling. I knew they were sadistic fraggers to even think of removing armour in the first place. But to send these sections...

Warnings scroll across my vision and I open my fingers, energon staining my palm as I dig the point of the chevron out. Pain is a distant thing as I flex my hand, after all, it is nothing to what they must have felt when these were removed. I have no idea who was behind the choice, but if I ever find out I will work out how to overcome my base coding and my medical oath so that I can take them apart bolt by bolt.

“Hoist?” You all right?” I lift my armour, plates clattering together in a threat display before I register the EMF hovering at the edge of mine and the softly spoken voice as the glyphs registering concern appear in my comm unit.

“No, but there's not much you can do about that.” I snap at the shuttle as I subspace the armour and grab a rag, dabbing at the obscenely bright smear across my palm.

Skyfire doesn't take offence, reaching out to take the cloth and my hand, cleaning the puncture as gently as any medic would. “I can only do what I am able.” He says as he puts the rag down, letting me reclaim my hand. I shudder as his field extends, gently twining with my own. A solid sense of understanding and an offer of comradeship, a shoulder to lean against. I pull my own EMF back, some medic I am, I'm meant to be the one giving comfort.

“You'll do no mech any good if your processors are too fragmented, you need to be at optimal operating capacity when they get back.” Again with that unwavering trust in Jazz and Mirage and their abilities. Skyfire doesn't push, waiting, only the brief flicker of his wings giving away his – insecurity? Nervousness? I'm not sure, but resisting his offer is suddenly too much effort. I've been dismissing warnings for recharge, the short nap I had making no dent in my exhaustion, and his field is a steady warmth against the cold I can feel creeping in. I let him wrap me into his arms as I push my field against his, assaulting him with my anger and helplessness, my rage at the casual Decepticon cruelty eventually ebbing into a strut deep weariness.

“Recharge. I'll wake you if we get any news.” I want to protest, but I can already feel my systems winding down, the darkness claiming me.

* * *

I vent another cycle of atmosphere as I look around the medbay, Skyfire having left once I cycled back up, my systems finally ceasing to bombard me with errors. That doesn't mean I'm not dwelling in memories again, rerunning the battle, the aftermath, anything up to this point: medbay, ready to go, all I am missing is my patients.

I need to get out of here, replaying things yet again won't help my processor. I should probably go get some energon, running myself down to fumes also won't help.

The walk to the rec room seems longer than normal, I can feel the gazes of Autobots on me, unsure of what to say, most opt to remain silent. The laughter and joking that is so common in the corridors muted, the halls ringing with the silence. Even the rec room itself is quieter than normal, Autobots hunched around tables, a thread of unease winding around every mech present like a virus.

“We didn't get chance to tell you last night, but you might like to know, Blue managed to tag Skywarp when he brought the second package.” I glance up at Sideswipe as he sidles up to me as I grab a cube, his vindictive smile almost making me pause, but I find that just this once his delight in violence doesn't make me ache for him.

“Good.” I say before I can censor myself and I can almost hear audio units being boosted all around the rec room. The first patrol was sworn to silence about what had been given to them and the second were under orders not to open anything. Most of the mechs present have no idea what Skywarp dropped off that would get such a reaction out of me. I shake my helm at the expectant gazes, the patrol isn't the only one sworn to silence. Prime knows what a dent it would put in morale if it were common knowledge.

I finish my energon in a brooding silence, the usual hecklers when gossip is around keeping their vocalisers muted. I shouldn't be glad that they managed to hit him. I've come to accept the inevitability of war and fighting, but I shouldn't be hoping that whatever Blue hit hurt like the Pit.

::Hoist, report to medbay.:: I ping an acknowledgement to Prowl as I make my way out of the rec room. The tactician is tense as I enter, his sensory panel hitched upwards in concern.

“They have them. I've sent Skyfire out to help transport them.” I am glad I am near to a berth as I use it to steady myself while I reset my venting cycle.

“They've got them out?” I know that is what he just said but I have to be sure.

Prowl doesn't answer me aloud, instead offering a data port and I hesitate before connecting, knowing how little the tactician enjoys such a method of transferring data. He just waits patiently until I connect and receive the data packet.

It is a fragment of encrypted comms, on a level I would normally never be privy to, decrypted so that I can understand what was said, even if it does take a long moment to sort out who is who, the encoding on the comm channel stripping out anything but base glyphs, no personal quirks left to give any hints to identity and not all the codenames are immediately obvious until I have thought them through.

_::Dreamer, Stargazer, respond - Meister here: mission critical, require distraction and pickup.::_

_::Meister - Dreamer: acknowledged, Speedbird and co dispatched, Highflight on route.::_

_::Meister - Stargazer: condition?::_

_::Stargazer - Penumbra: Redcross critical, Caduceus stable.::_

It is no wonder Prowl is worried, Jazz is a practical mech, and neither he nor Mirage call for backup unless they absolutely have to, they are well aware that none of the other mechs on the Ark are trained for the sort of operations they undertake.

It barely takes me any time at all to prepare the medbay, I've had two berths set up in isolation rooms with as much equipment as possible since those first chunks of armour were received.

“I've summoned Wheeljack, it sounds like you'll need the extra hands.” I don't protest, 'Jack may not be medic trained and coded but he has a solid knowledge of a mechs systems and what not to splice together. Everything set I nod at Wheeljack as he enters. There is nothing left to do now but wait.


	2. Líbera me - First Aid

I online slowly, error after error scrolling across my heads up display, it's easier to push them aside, shuffling them into a temporary partition than try to deal with them all straight away. I can tell I've been injured, the amount of internal logs attest to that, but there's nothing from Ratchet or Hoist and they always leave a clear report of what damage has been taken and what a mech needs to avoid doing. After all, it's better to tell a mech they need to remain still before they come online and try and sit up. The lack of that is... disturbing. Knowing where I am would be good. In fact, knowing what happened at all would be nice. I push my optics up to the top of the queue of systems that are being recalibrated, replaying what little I remember of the battle before my memory files suddenly go blank.

* * *

I spare a quick glance as Hoist drops down beside me as the rest of the back up that had been called for powers past us to support the frontlines. We haven't needed to call out all our forces for a while, even Red and Prowl are out. Both usually remain in the Ark, Red Alert coordinating the defences and Prowl directing the battle, hooked up to the consoles like it is a giant chess board. It's a sure sign that a battle isn't going to plan.

I pull my hands out of Windcharger's internal circuitry, letting Hoist take over as I access my gestalt link and send a message to my brothers ::Hoist's here, moving to your location.:: I duck and weave my way across the battlefield until I reach Streetwise, then suddenly Groove and Hot Spot are beside us.

::Defensor, combine.:: Blades drops out of the sky from above as Hot Spot's command sets off automatic subroutines deep in my coding. I simply let them run, let my systems sync with my gestalts as we join together. Physical connections latch into place as our processors mesh, data streams entwining until we are one and yet separate.

The command level comm link that springs to life is natural, because Hot Spot was linked to it. Just as my medical link and Blades' aerial comm channels are simply there, expected.

::Defensor, hold Menasor and Bruticus.:: Prowl snaps out as soon as we are combined and we turn, weapon already humming with rising charge as we target one of the Decepticon gestalts.

Menasor looks faintly surprised as the blast pushes him backwards. Our weapon having far more of an impact than the smaller guns of our non gestalt kin. We use the time Menasor gives us as he looks around for the source of his pain to get closer. Both the Decepticon gestalts are stupid.

No. Not stupid, just not One. We work together, meshing, fields entwining to create Us. Superion and Devastator are able to do it. Yet Bruticus and Menasor, they are divided, each component working slightly out of sync. It makes them slower to react as they argue, fighting against each other. It is an advantage we ruthlessly exploit each time we meet them in battle, for they have greater firepower, our speed is our advantage.

We fire again, aiming for his shoulders, his hips, for the connection points are always the weakest, if we can damage those we can force him into his component parts. Our Autobot kin can take care of them once Menasor is no longer One.

A shot makes a direct hit to a shoulder coupling, the shock rolling out through the gestalt link and we can see the moment he loses cohesion, pain breaking through the tenuous bonds that hold his components together and they scatter in a barrage of curses.

Bruticus has taken the time to lock us in as his target and we snarl, several choice curses Blades often uses escaping our vocaliser as heated plasma scorches across our armour. We return fire, closing the distance, smaller mechs scattering from around us.

Bruticus smirks, ignoring our charging weapon that will force him out of his combined form at this range, as he steps closer, plating pressing against plating even as we fire our weapon. “Survive this, Autobot.”

Pain tears through us, searing across our spark, and we stumble as the glowing blade is withdrawn, the ground trembling as we hit it. We feel the gestalt link separating, coding kicking in to prevent an injury to one component from destroying the entire gestalt. I think I can hear Streetwise cursing somewhere nearby, and the thwump-thwump-thwump of Blades' machine gun, but I can't focus, the world greying out in a wash of static.

* * *

The whine that escapes my vocaliser must sound truly pitiful, except my audial units haven't booted up and I can't hear myself yet. Defensor was shot, we had separated, fail-safes kicking in and then... My optics are still only half way through the reboot, I take the time to check what else is causing problems. Dismissing warnings about errors as quickly as I can, logging those that will need work once I awaken.

I stare at one of the error codes as it appears on my HUD, that has to be a mistake. It has to be. Unease rattles around my circuits. Why would my internal logs be showing that my spark chamber has been opened and the containment field breached by an energy surge that is indicative of only one thing. No weapon has that type of reading, besides, surviving a direct energy discharge to the spark is highly unlikely. The other option... I cut that thread of thought before it goes any further.

It is almost a relief when my optics finally boot up, although everything seems bright without my visor. I must have lost it during the fight. A dim red glow makes itself known and I shiver as I twist to gaze at the laser bars.

No. my processor refuses to accept what I am seeing, but a reset of my optical array doesn't change anything. What I assume is the Decepticon brig still around me. Reaching out along my gestalt link I feel my fuel pump stutter as I run up against a blank space.

They can't be gone. Can't. Just... it's not possible. I can't stop the shudder that rattles through my frame, vibrating out along my limbs, armour clattering together. I'm alone, my mind truly my own for the first time since I came online and I don't like it. I want my gestalt. I _need_ my gestalt. A quick query lets me relax a little. They might not be deactivated. If I'm lucky it's just that the link is being blocked. I won't know until we get out of here.

I take in the rest of the room, ignoring the twinges of pain and something else, fleeting scraps of charge lingering on my plating. No, I won't think about that now. I feel my optics brighten in surprise as they fall on a second mech. Ratchet. In the darkness it had taken me a while to identify him.

My limbs don't want to cooperate, pain shooting through my frame as I roll over to push myself to my feet. Blocking the sensors as best I can I crawl the short distance between us, using his frame to pull myself upright, medical subroutines kicking in to scan him. Not that it will do any good. My transformation sequences have been disabled, all of them, even the most basic of my tools. I let my fingers trace the jagged edge of a missing shard of armour, similar to my own injury before moving on. He's injured yes, but a closer inspection suggests they have been healed. Or at least, he's been patched up enough that he won't extinguish.

Leaving his frame I tug at the chain holding him to the wall. That wouldn't take a breem if I had access to even half of my tools. As it is all I can do is stare helplessly at it. Sliding down to sit at his feet I lean back, the warmth from his frame and the reassuringly familiar energy field giving me a false sense of security as I wait. For what I am waiting for, I have no idea.

I must have fallen into recharge as I am jolted back to full alert by a weight against my cheek, the realisation that my mask is missing slowly filtering into my processor. I hadn't noticed that earlier. My yelp echoes around the cells as the first thing I see is a red visor, far too close, amusement wrapping around me like a cloak and I press backwards into Ratchet. The Decepticon, Vortex follows my movement.

“Now, now, you didn't try and escape yesterday.” His smirk is self satisfied and my spark skips several pulses in its chamber as I understand exactly what he is telling me. _He_ is responsible for the error messages.

I'm not the only one as I feel Ratchet tense, I hadn't even realised he was back online, but his field burns with anger before he lashes out.

Vortex snarls, before a rough chuckle escapes his vocaliser as he raises a hand to his dented shoulder, the force behind the blow having caused his clavicle armour to buckle. “Hit a nerve did I?” He squats down onto his haunches, “I don't suppose Ratchet has told you that I gave him a chance to tell me to stop.”

I, what? I'm not sure I understand, why wouldn't he tell Vortex to stop?

Helplessness swirls across Ratchet's field as his anger flares, burning around him like a cloak. The chain jingles as he shifts and I know that the first conclusion my processor is giving me to my internal query is right. Vortex is the Decepticon _interrogator_. He will have asked for something in return. Something that would have far worse consequences. I lean against his nearest leg and the anger dies just as quickly as it started, modulating back into reassurance and a sense of calm that I am sure he is not truly feeling.

Annoyance flashes in the depths of Vortex's optical band, did he really think he could drive a wedge between us that easily? That I wouldn't understand? I'm young, yes, not a fool. I came online to this war, I've had to put mechs back together after they are retrieved from Decepticon prison camps.

Time is everything now. They won't leave us here. They'll be trying to get us back. We just have to stay alive.

“Come here.” Vortex gestures me forward. His gun flips out of subspace when I don't move and for a moment I think he will shoot me, then he pulls his arm upwards. The blast passes over my helm and Ratchet grunts. “Come here or I'll shoot him again, and I won't have it on the lowest power setting.”

I ignore Ratchet's warning, we need to remain as uninjured as possible, cooperating with little things and saving our strength is the best option we have.

“Good.” Vortex says as I push myself to my feet and move towards him. As soon as I am close enough I am pulled into his arms, his engine vibrating in a low hum against my back plating. “You do as I say, I won't hurt you're boss okay?” His voice is quiet, his vocaliser right next to my audial receiver. What can I say? I don't want to. I don't trust him to keep his word, yet... if he does... I nod, it is all I can do.

“Excellent.” His energy field pulses with delight. “Lie down, on your back.” He barely lets me settle before he crouches over me, legs clamping around my hips as he pulls a data cable from his arm. I open one of my own ports, transforming the small cover into subspace before he can remove it entirely.

The probing sensation at the edge of my firewall is strangely familiar, and I almost lower them out of reflex. The sensation is so familiar... Is something I've been missing... I slam even more firewalls into place, blocking every possible frequency as I realise what I am feeling. A faint thread of nausea passing through my tanks. Gestalt coding. I could feel his gestalt code and almost tried to link up, almost opened a pathway through my defences for him. I had managed not to think about that, about the loss of my link to my team, their minds silenced alongside whatever is blocking my commline.

Another push at my firewalls and my coding welcomes the connection, telling me that he should have access. I've never been alone for so long before. I suppress the feeling, I do not want Vortex in my processor. No matter what my base coding thinks.

And he's not going to stop pushing until he gains access. 

I can't let him in. I have records of every mech I've treated. All but stranded as we are with such a small crew that would be just about all of them. I hesitate as I mentally hover over a small encrypted folder. I never thought I'd need to activate it.

Decryption algorithms given and verified the content of the folder begins to spread. A small innocuous shred of coding eating its way through my processor. I shudder as I quite literally feel it wiping the medical records I hold. Knowledge gone and its job done it self-destructs, erasing itself from my memory core, leaving no trace except for the empty gaps where I know I should have information. That I have backup logs on the Ark is of no comfort as the sense of something missing is a constant irritant here and now.

 **Oh, very nicely done.** Vortex's thoughts echo in my mind as he breaks through my outer firewalls. **A good thing I didn't need those records.** His tone is edged with a faint humour, as if there is something obvious I am missing. **You just don't have what I'm wanting.**

I don't have what he wants? But then... Ratchet.

Ratchet has the same data as I just deleted, however he also has much more. He's on the command council, he has so much more classified intelligence than just medical knowledge. That's why Vortex hasn't tried to hack him.. If he does he'll lose any chance at gaining anything as Ratchet will do exactly what I've just done, only it will be far more thorough. He needs Ratchet to voluntarily lower his firewalls, to _choose_ to let Vortex in. I'm just the bait.

He trails a finger up my arm, strangely gentle, pressing against my armour seams, and I gasp at the sensation as he sends his sensor data down the link. My processor flashes a query at me. I turn it down with a harsh chuckle. No, I won't be completing a data loop.

“Tell me you want it.” Vortex orders and chains jingle as Ratchet shifts.

“I...” My vocaliser wobbles, forcing me to reset it and my plating ripples in a full frame shudder as I choke it out. “I want it.”

“Good.” Vortex croons, a smile stretching across his face plates. “I wouldn't want to think I was forcing you.” He twists around, addressing that to Ratchet and I shake my helm furiously. Ratchet can't afford to stop him. He just can't.

Vortex is waiting, drawing it out as he draw circles on my chest “Open your spark chamber.”

“No.”

“No?”

“I can't.” My voice cracks, degenerating into a warble. He can't just expect me to bare my spark.

He leans down, close enough that his vents are blasting warm air at me. “Oh, I think you can.” His vision slides sideways, just a flicker to remind me what is at stake. I still... it's my spark! I can't. He sets his hands on my chest, fingers a the seams and it creaks as he pries at it, pain flaring as the metal gives. “Either you open up or I'll rip it off.”

The whirr of transformation is loud as Ratchet curses, doesn't he understand that I'm doing this for him?

“Good choice.” His field ripples with triumph as he lower a hand to my spark for a moment, and I cringe away from the sudden unexpected burst of pleasure that turns into a shudder as the first edges of his spark meet mine, the tendrils of energy flickering as they reach out to meet.

Everything he is meets with my essence and I cringe, mentally and physically, clawing at the emotions pushing into my very being. I'm drowning in a maelstrom as they batter at my core. His casual cruelty for those surrounding him, his brutality, his passion and zeal for causing pain. His enjoyment of seeing another mech in agony.

 **But is this agony First Aid?** I barely register the question before he utilises the data link to push his feelings to me, the excitement and thrill boiling into my mind.

Overwhelming.

Enticing.

_Pleasure._

I am helpless before him, my frame, processor and spark laid bare.

Overload hits in a wave, ripping through me, through my spark and Vortex follows.

His weight sprawls across me until he regains control of his limbs and I can't close my spark chamber fast enough. I can still feel him, the lingering presence of his core imprinted into my spark, a permanent reminder of this moment.

I expect him to move away, yet he remains where he is, kneeling over my frame. His knee shifts, pressing down on my arm as he swings his body round, his back to me as he keeps my hand captive. I can feel the soft touch of his fingers, the grooves and micro-fractures caressing over mine. Then all I feel is pain. Static washes over my vision and I am only vaguely aware of curling my frame around his back, my free hand clawing at him. It hurts. It _Hurts!_ Please... I have to reset my vocaliser as all that emerges is a static laden squeal. I didn't realise I'd been screaming.

“Please.” My hand finds purchase, tugging on a rotor when the agony remains, white hot fire burning its way across my senses. “Vortex, please.” I can't focus enough to dull my sensors, the subroutines lost somewhere in the flames.

Then I am cradling my hand as his weight is gone and it still hurts and I don't want to know, but my internal repair system lets me know anyway. I am finally able to dull the sensors, lowering the sensitivity, numbing much of the echo which is telling me that he is still cutting into my sensor net.

Relief spreads through my chassis like a wave of darkness.

* * *

There are more mechs present when I online, errors filling my vision until I shunt them aside. I recognise most of them, or at least, I think I do. Swindle, Brawl, Drag Strip, Wildrider, Breakdown and Dead End are easy, they are Menasor and Bruticus' members, the others, Barricade I think, and the fliers Blitzwing and Astrotrain.

Brawl makes the first move, his helm canted to one side and I know that he is speaking through his gestalt bond. It is confirmed a moment later as Vortex laughs out loud.

“So, 'Tex says you're a good frag.”I feel my optics brighten in shock, narrowing the focus of my vision on the tank and the reason for the gathered Decepticons becomes clear. I had thought Vortex was the abnormality. That he was somehow damaged. They can't all be like that. Maybe it's a virus. Maybe I'd be able to purge it for them.

“You're thinking too much.” His frame is so much bigger than mine, it is no effort for him to pin me down and link up. My fans roar back to life as he wastes no time in pinging me with data. One hand settles across my throat, the other holding my hands above my helm. Like Vortex, the fact that the dataloop hasn't been completed doesn't seem to bother him. I'm not able to send anything back, not that I'd want to, but he doesn't need the loop to reinforce and rebound the pleasure between our frames.

Just the fact that he has me helpless seems to be enough, his fans whirring loudly as he pulses a strange mixture of lust and control down the link. I mentally draw back and he laughs, the reaction only spurring him on. He's not like Vortex, the interrogator was deliberately feeding me pleasure, Brawl? He's feeding off my disgust as he presses ever deeper into my processor, his frame trembling with static before he stills, tendrils of energy curling around his plating.

“Heh, 'Tex was right, you are a good little frag.” He says as he pushes himself away from me, stowing his cable away as he steps back.

“If you want him to lie back and take it I suppose.” One of the fliers puts in and I have to stop the automatic flinch as the triple changer takes a couple of steps forwards, crouching down. “Come over here.”

I shoot a quick glance at Vortex and one side of his visor winks off and on in a distinct human inspired wink as he waves a hand at me, a clear 'get on with it.'

I push myself to my feet, the flier standing back up and leaning back against the wall. He pulls me forwards once I am close enough and I feel dwarfed by the wide wings as they flicker slightly. Astrotrain, it has to be, he has a similar size and wings set to Skyfire and there's only one Decepticon that can transform into a shuttle with that distinctive paint scheme. He tightens his hold with one hand, the other stroking across my back. The sharp click and torrent of unwelcome data is almost normal and I can't do anymore than twitch slightly.

 **You've got hands medic, use them.** I tentatively raise my uninjured hand to his armour as the order flows into my mind. **And do anything you shouldn't and I'll be very unhappy.** My touch is light, uncertain, I don't know what he wants. **I'm no soft sparked Autobot, no need to be quite so gentle.** I press down, hard enough that the contact will register as something firmer than my previous tentative touch. I run it along his thigh, testing for the almost invisible seam between armour plates where they split to create one of his alt modes, the sensor count along them is always higher.

 **Better.** He wraps his hand around mine, guiding it towards the bottom edge of his wing. **There.** His wing twitches and he groans as I press against the edge, running my fingers along the sensor rich edge. **Both hands medic.** If I only use my fingertips I can manage that, he doesn't seem to mind as long as I follow his instructions, touching where he is telling me to.

It seems to be breems before the first hint of a current skitters across his plating, even longer before it is noticeably building. His overload can't come soon enough as I press my fingers deeper, my uninjured hand buried in his hip joint to better manipulate the pressure sensors under the armour. Finally, _finally,_ he stiffens, charge jumping across my plating as it seeks to escape his frame. He unlinks, pushing me away to stumble back into the centre of the room.

“Our turn now.” Drag Strip knocks me to the floor, both he and Wildrider following me down. I am relieved that they don't seem to want to connect, neither of them going for my dataports, instead I am rolled over, face to the floor as weight settling across my legs. I gasp as one of them jams his knee into my back, grinding my shoulder against the floor. “You're leaking medic.” Fingers swipe across my shoulder before they are abruptly against my face. “You made the mess, you clean it.”

My tanks heave at the scent of half processed energon so close to sensitive receptors. His fingers slip into my mouth and I flick my glossa over them, trying not to cringe at the slightly acidic taste and the sharp tang of coolant that burns as it comes into contact with the protometal in my mouth.

I fix my optics onto the wall on the opposite side of the cell, ignoring the sharp twist of wiring being tugged as the two Stunticons play with my frame and the fingers in my mouth curl, pressing and exploring for what seems an age.

“He's watching me.”

“So?” Drag Strip snarls as he digs his fingers further into my hip joint and I flick my optics to one side, fixing them on the mech crouching in the corner.

“So I don't like it.” Breakdown replies.

“Do something about it then.” Vortex interrupts. 

Drag Strip's chuckle is loud as he shifts, moving up my back, one hand curling underneath my chin. What he is doing is suddenly and clearly obvious and I thrash, a wail of denial escaping my vocaliser.

Wildrider settles in front of me, my helm nearly in his lap and with two of them using their weight to keep me still I can't escape. “Please. I'll turn them off, please. Don't, please.”

“You should have thought of that before.” Wildrider says as he presses his hand against my face.

Errors stream across my HUD as half my vision goes abruptly offline, pain hitting a moment after as my relays catch up with the sudden and violent change in my status. “There there, that wasn't so bad.” The hand gently smooths across my cheek, a soft caress. “One more to go.” I whimper, my vocaliser still not fully rebooted and I can't even shake my head in denial in their grasp.

The caress moves, working its way to the other side and I tense, already pulling my optical array offline, dimming what sensors I can. This time the pain is little more than a sharp sting, the tinkling of tiny shards of glass hitting the floor loud beneath my harsh venting.

“All done.” Drag Strip says against my audial array, the harsh purr of his engine thrumming against my frame, heat seeping from his plating. “I preferred the first one, I like it when you scream.”

Wildrider snickers. “So make him scream.”

The hands return to my frame, twisting and pinching at wires wherever they can fit their fingers beneath my armour. They are avoiding energon and coolant lines as much as they can, perhaps they don't want to be the ones responsible for extinguishing me. On the other hand they are sparing no such concern for my sensor net, the soft micro-filaments being crushed and snapped, each sensor flaring. Some are blissfully going offline, completely disconnected, but they are few and far between, most are misfiring, sending constant signals even once the pressure has moved on.

“Come on pet, scream for me.” Drag Strip croons as he works my arm out from where it is curled into my side. All he has to do is apply light pressure and I oblige him. He doesn't let go, squeezing, ignoring energon welling under his fingers as I shift around, prying at his grip with my free hand until Wildrider catches it and pins it down.

“Much better.” Static laces his vocaliser as he keeps increasing the pressure, metal creaking as more of the sensors are compressed and the delicate gears are ground against the support struts. The sharp crack of one of the struts breaking is over-ridden by myself and both of the 'Cons as I feel the crackle of energy from their overloads.

I remain where I am when they get up, sprawled across the floor, it hurts far too much for me to be bothered to move. After all, where can I go? I can't even pinpoint where the Decepticons are, there are too many for me to separate from the sounds of their systems and where the door is I have no idea. Even if I did the rest of the Nemesis is beyond that. They won't need to secure the cell, I won't be able to get out now without one of them directing me around the ship.

Yet no more of them are approaching and I feel a vague hope that they are done.

I hear the soft swish of the door opening as Vortex says. “You're late, expected to see you in here as soon as I comm'd you.”

“I was on duty.” The newcomer doesn't sound at all impressed that he was delayed.

“You wanting a go now that you're here then 'Punch?” I can hear the amusement in Vortex's tone, waiting for me to protest.

“Of course.” I can't help but shift away from the new mech, Punch was it? As he lowers himself over me. Lust burns through his energy field, wrapping around me like a cloak. I don't understand how they can enjoy this. I don't understand what drives a mech to gain pleasure from another that has not consented. My coding aches to scan them, find out what is wrong, find out if they can be fixed, if they can be saved.

“Give it to him.” Vortex interrupts with a chuckle and I am confused as to what he is meaning until I feel a hand nudge against my own, data cable dangling limply from the end

I can't. I... I have to do it. The connector feels heavy in my hand and I wish I could see Vortex, to check whether he is still happy. I'm still doing as he asked, he has to keep his word. It takes several tries to connect the cable, my hand is trembling so much. I don't want to do this. Not again. I shudder as the connection settles, his emotions swirling around my processor.

He reaches out, smearing more energon across my frame as he breaks the seal on the shoulder my auto-repair has been frantically working on. That's probably not a good thing, I should be worried about energon loss, but it just doesn't seem too important any more. Nothing seems important. What use is a broken mech? Not much. I don't have anything left to give. Nothing to bargain with. “Please?” I don't expect it to work. It hasn't yet.

He doesn't answer me in words and I can't help the flinch as I am bombarded by a packet of sensor data, the ghostly feeling of the sensory data from his hands overlying the same data from my own sensors. I can't help the whimper that escapes as he leans closer. “Pretty little medic like you should do this more often.” Amusement rolls off him and I have to get away. Pain flares anew in my hand, agony radiating through the sensors left bare to the surface of the cell as I scrape my palm against the floor.

“Keeping us all in good working order. Isn't that what you're programmed to do?” He leans closer, denta softly closing around the wires in my neck and I shift, trying to dislodge him. “Not going to answer me?” I shake my helm, I won't give him the satisfaction of an answer. “The answer you are wanting is 'yes'.”

I hiss as my clavicle armour bends inwards, compressing the sensor net beneath as he rests his weight on my good shoulder. “Open up.” One of his fingers traces the fresh crack across my chest, making clear what he means.

“Please. Don't make me...”

“That wasn't an option medic.” Both his hands are spread over my spark chamber and I know he will force it open as Vortex did. I'm not sure if my armour will remain in one piece if it is wrenched like that for a second time. Warnings flare, ruthlessly suppressed as my coding warns me about my lack of responsibility in engaging in such an activity while injured.

My sparks corona flares as it senses another energy field, dancing across the short distance and I can't help the needy whine that escapes my vocaliser. Because it feels good. It shouldn't. I don't want it too but it does and my coding wants more. But it isn't another spark, just a hand that is connecting to my spark, he's not stupid enough to open himself up to me.

“Don't. Please don't make me, please, I'll do anything else, anything.” I plead, I have nothing else, nothing but the hope that he will find some compassion deep in his spark. It is to no avail as cruel amusement grows in his field and flows down the data link.

He lowers his hand and I can feel my spark reaching out, curling around his fingers, each flare of energy sending a burst of pleasure that I don't want racing around my frame. Yet, I need it. A small treacherous part of me wants it. Wants the pleasure that is slowly, so slowly overriding the pain of my frame. I have to ignore it. I have to. Because I don't think I can survive falling so far as to beg him to continue. To ask for more like Vortex made me.

And I have to ignore that too, the small part that says he didn't force me, that I willingly asked for it. Begged even.

The hand dips lower again, flattening over the outer corona and I can't stop the moan that escapes my vocaliser. It should hurt. The fact that it doesn't makes it so much worse. This should be an intimate thing, bearing ones spark to a loved one. Not this. Never this. At least he's not forcing his own on me. I feel my armour clatter just thinking about it. _Him_. I can still feel Vortex's touch on my spark. I don't think I'll ever get it off.

He quivers above me, his frame rattling and I can feel his excitement through the link and his field as he waits, building up to what he is about to do. Then his hand sinks into my spark and I can't think. It feels, heat, burning pleasure, heat, need, want. And overload crackles around my frame, pure pleasure washing away pain for a long moment before a slew of errors cross my vision. I don't fight them, letting the darkness of stasis claim me.


	3. Non sum qualis eram - Interlude I - Counterpunch

The light in the cells is dim, red optics shining out of the gloom, the the single pair of blue optics seeming out of place. All the usual suspects are already here and I curse my patrol shift that kept me out until now.

“You're late, I expected to see you in here as soon as I comm'd you.” I locate Vortex leaning against the wall beside one of the prisoners and I affix a scowl onto my features.

“I was on duty.” I snarl, stepping into the cell.

“You wanting a go, now that you're here then 'Punch?” I have long since grown used to them shortening my designation, although I spent a long time wondering if they were hinting at something. Like many things it has become something I barely notice any more.

“Of course.” Not a hint of my disgust shows, only lust, amusement and a cruel disregard for the Autobot currently cringing away from me as I kneel over his prone form. I have to steel myself against the agony on his features and the reason that only one pair of blue optics is visible. I have to wonder which of them did that

You see, Counterpunch is well known as a mech who enjoys the... baser pleasures, at least where prisoners are concerned. I, Punch, hate it with every fibre of my being; yet how better to assess a prisoners injuries? Far easier to walk in and be ignored because they know I enjoy watching than to try and sneak in.

“Give it to him.” Vortex says from where he is slouched against the wall. “I've got him well trained.” Yes. Counterpunch would enjoy that. I'd prefer to shoot Vortex, unfortunately that isn't an option right now. I let a smirk stretch across my face as I hand First Aid my data cable. His hand trembles as he realises what he is being given before he plugs it into one of his ports, a shudder wracking his frame as the one way connection is established between us. I ache to complete the loop, to reassure him, let him know that we are working on getting them back.

Instead I let my fingers trace over his shoulder. Dried energon flakes away at my touch, fresh welling from beneath. I am not gentle, I cannot afford to be. His harsh venting and whimper keeping our watchers happy as I assess the extent of his injuries.

His firewalls are in shreds, his mental presence flinching violently from me as I check through his databanks. Nothing of use, he must have had the good sense to delete everything he could. It makes this invasion of his self even worse. He knows nothing, he's just a pawn Vortex is using.

“Please?” I have to catch myself at his first plea, an almost silent request for mercy I cannot grant.

He cringes as I send the first packets of data down the connection, without his firewalls his processor is forced to accept it. And without a return connection he can't rebound the data back to me. I let my hand trail over his hip, making sure to transmit the sensation down the link. He whimpers as his fans spin up and I lean closer, letting my darker side out so to speak, I need to be convincing, there is no room for Punch's soft spark here.

“Pretty little medic like you should do this more often.” His hands scrabble along the floor, pain flashing across his face as he curls one hand into a fist. That sends a jolt of pleasure through my spark, that I have so much power over another mech. I can do whatever I want to him and I'll only be encouraged by the watching mechs. “Keeping us all in good working order. Isn't that what you're programmed to do?”

I lean down, nipping at the juncture between his shoulder and helm where his wiring is exposed. “Not going to answer me?” He shakes his helm and I laugh. “The answer you are wanting is 'yes'.”

It is liberating to not have to watch my strength. Even the more... submissive of the 'Cons have a limit on what they will tolerate and most enforce it with whatever weapon they have attached. Prisoners though? The only limit is that they stay alive. Deactivated captives does not a happy Megatron make.

The creak of metal bending underneath my hands brings a smile to my face, a rush of heat burning through my circuits as I relish in the power. I let one finger track over his chest, tracing the crack marring the almost invisible seam. “Open up.” I ignore his pleading, he will do as I say. Either that or the crack will be getting bigger. “That wasn't an option, medic.”

My hands are both resting over his spark chamber, ready to force the issue, when he complies. The armour slides apart with a creak and grind as the cracked metal shifts. My own fans spin up with a whirr of sound as just the sight of the pulsing spark sends excitement around my frame. Is this not the ultimate power trip? I could extinguish him before he could realise what I intend to do.

Small tendrils of energy reach upwards as I hover a hand over his spark, they discharge to my armour, short bursts of pleasure as the energy momentarily overwhelms my sensors. He keens, frame arching into the contact, base coding responding to the stimuli I am providing.

“Don't. Please don't make me, please, I'll do anything else, anything” I smirk, letting my amusement wash down the link at his attempt at a plea. I push down, my hand getting closer and closer to his spark and I groan at the energy, the feeling of his very life curling around me, heat spreads through my frame as I tremble in anticipation.

I push down, there is no resistance to my hand as I push past the corona and the energy seeps into my plating, into my very circuitry, spreading through my frame in a flare of white heat. I feel my frame arch backwards, breaking the contact as static crackles around me before I go limp, sprawling over his frame.

It takes a moment to regain control, my struts feeling like they are made of liquid metal as I push myself up. He is offline, my overload having echoed across to his frame and I send a self satisfied grin in Vortex's direction.

I know I have to report this to Jazz, however there is a part of me which urges silence; that tells me it won't matter, that how I got the information is inconsequential. Perhaps there is also the small part of _me_ that truly enjoyed what I have just done. Sometimes I think I am slipping into my role a little too much.

To be honest, Counterpunch isn't too bothered by that thought.


	4. Inter arma enim silent leges - Ratchet

I snarl, well before our feet have returned to the ground my industrial grade armour saw is lashing out at the seeker. He yelps as I score a shallow gouge across his plating, he lets go to fire his thrusters to get out of range, hovering as we clatter to the ground. I rearrange myself over First Aid, my scans showing that he is still stable, the abduction and fall not doing any further damage. Thankfully I had managed most of the repairs before Skywarp had appeared, latched on and taken us... where?

If the deep purple and slate grey décor is anything to go by we are definitely on board the Nemesis, a hanger perhaps, not somewhere I can easily get out of on my own, not with ocean outside the hull, especially with Aid to somehow move, he is closer to my size than the frontliners I am designed to transport. None of that will stop me from trying.

Skywarp is crouched on a crossbeam near the roof and I idly track his position with my peripheral sensors. Using ranged weapons would be a waste of time and energy, the fragger simply teleports out of the way and he is well out of melee range. However as long as he is up there, he isn't about to warp in next to us. There are several doors and I have no idea which would lead me outside and which would only be taking me deeper into the Decepticon ship. It is somewhat of a stalemate, Skywarp doesn't dare come down into range, and I can't leave First Aid in case Skywarp takes him. The rest of the Decepticons could be coming back at any time and every moment is time that I could be using to get out.

A clank and whirr of machinery from one of the doors behind my position me turning, curious, my systems already primed for action, this could be my only chance. My battle heightened senses run far quicker than normal, the door opening impossibly slowly as the airlock now used to keep the vast ocean at bay cycles through it's sequence at a crawl. I ready my weapon, the pulse rifle feeling heavy in my hands as it hums, a subsonic note that echoes through my frame as I line it up with the opening door.

My vision goes white as energy swamps my circuits, rifle dropping from suddenly nerveless fingers as Starscream's nullray shot does its job. I have enough time to see Megatron and Starscream step forward, and I distantly feel an impact vibration behind as Skywarp drops back to the ground, before I fall offline.

* * *

Everything aches. That is my first assessment as awareness slowly returns before my memory core boots up. Of course everything hurts. I had been targeted by two members of a bonded seeker trine, Skywarp feeding Starscream targeting data, I hadn't even thought of the possibility that Skywarp hadn't tried to bring me down himself was simply because he had an easier way to do it that didn't involve getting injured.

I hate this, the inability to know where I am or what is going on as my systems recalibrate from the nullray blast. Sound returns first, the all too familiar crackle of energy bars and fainter, a wash of water against metal lets me know that there was no miraculous rescue. Vision takes longer, focus returning in increments as I scroll through the mass of warning messages in my processor. Weaponry, comms, all transformation sequences, all of them disabled; not that I expected anything else. I dismiss the last of the notifications and cycle my optics again to see if they've rebooted correctly.

At first I am unsure whether the recalibration has worked completely, the red glow from the bars is the only light, except a small blinking light on the far wall, I ignore it, if they are watching for me to return to awareness pretending to be offline will do me no good now. No, I may as well use the time to gather information about my surroundings.

And from what I can see the sum total of my intelligence gathering will not be much use. This must be tucked into the belly of the Nemesis, the ceiling is low, cramped, after all, it isn't as if comfort is a top priority in here. There are maybe six cells, eight possibly, it's hard to see as the far walls fade into the darkness and it will be a while longer before my optics are fully repaired. I am in a corner of the block and only the cell next to mine has lit security bars, I crouch down, focussing my scans on the slumped form in the next cell. Relief floods me as they come back good. He's still in deep stasis, but his nanites are slowly repairing the damage I wasn't able to get to.

I settle down against the solid bars between the cells, there is nothing else I can do except conserve my power. But still, slag it all. This isn't new, the whole getting captured part that is and I can't stop the shudder from rattling my armour at what will happen next. Why did I have to be seeing to First Aid of all mechs? He's a damn fine medic, but he has even less alternative skills than I have, one of special ops would make a much better cell companion.

It had been a frag up from the beginning though, it was hard going but we were slowly gaining ground, Prime pushing Megatron back step by step. I shake my helm, not wanting to replay the memory, but in the darkness of a Decepticon prison cell I have little else to do and I haven't yet been able to recharge, forced stasis by nullray not counting as it doesn't allow for a proper cycle. My last memory files are still at the forefront of my processor rather than filed away and I return to dwell on them whether I wish to or not, fast-forwarding to the moment everything went wrong.

The ground trembles as something big goes down and I spare a moment to try and locate the bigger mechs. Of the Decepticons Menasor has already been taken down, and as far as I can tell Devastator hasn't combined. Of the Autobots...

::Defensor's down.:: Prowl again, directing mechs with his usual efficiency as he works out what has happened before I have a chance to.

::Location Hoist?:: I call across the comm. as I triangulate Defensor's last position and then my own.

::Right flank, sector three.:: I add that into my mental map.

::I'm closer, I'll call if I need you.:: I receive a quick acknowledging ping from Hoist as I forgo the normal way of weaving across the field, something telling me that anything that can take Defensor down is serious indeed. At least neither Bruticus or Menasor are still combined or I'd never get to them.

I slide to my knees at Host Spots side, energon already pooling around his frame. Several curses escape my vocaliser at the damage as I vent a quick cycle of atmosphere. Streetwise looks at me like I am his personal saviour. I don't need to wait for my initial scans to give me a report before I send out my first call. ::Hoist, get over here.:: I am only vaguely aware of Groove and Blades defending us. ::Hot Spot is priority one, First Aid's priority two.:: 

::Don't let go.:: I don't think Streetwise truly understands that his instinctive grab for energon and coolant lines in his leaders torso is the only thing that is keeping Hot Spot from extinguishing straight away however he still gives me a look that asks if I am stupid.

I start to patch him back together, splicing the major lines on instinct, a few incorrectly matched lines won't hurt him as long as I don't connect coolant and energon together. On the other hand the loss of energon to his spark chamber will extinguish him. With that reconnected I shove a roll of metal gauze at Streetwise, ignoring his sound of protest, before he clumsily starts to imitate what I had been doing on the smaller energon lines.

Energon supply sorted I can turn my attention to his spark chamber, the faint glow of his spark visible through the gash, the heavily armoured casing torn like protoform, not the battle grade armour it is. I wince as I use the closest supply of armour to seal the gash in Hot Spots spark chamber, the white armour contrasting against his charred chest plating and the fine silvery weld lines. He came far too close to there being nothing left for me to try and save.

His spark containment steadies, still dropping, but at a fraction of a percent as the chamber once again has a steady energon supply to keep the containment field in place.

Hoist drops down beside me, as heedless as I am of the energon coating the ground. ::Finish up here, I'll see to Aid.:: I scramble across the ground the short distance to our youngest medic, clamping off the lines that have sent him into stasis, but it looks worse than it it. Whatever hit Defensor must have been aimed at his torso and Aid just caught the edge of it.

::Ratch, down::

::Watch out!::

I flinch, automatically curling around First Aid, coding aimed at saving my patient from further damage activating as Jazz and Hoist's voices overlap, warning clear in their tones.

I can see Hoist bring his rifle out of subspace from where he is crouching over Hot Spot, bringing it to bear just above me... and then the world lurches, gravity absent for a tank wrenching moment as my gyros protest the sudden absence of a stable surface beneath me.

And then reality reasserts itself.

* * *

The opening of a door pulls me out of my memories, I'll need all my attention on the here and now. I hiss as the cells light up, optics dimming to a lower resolution as the sudden influx of photons registers as pain to overtaxed sensors. Even with limited vision I know who has entered, only one mech moves with such deadly intent.

“I do hope you are enjoying our accommodation.

It takes a couple of attempts to coach my vocaliser into working and it still sounds rough. “Not the best I've ever stayed in.” Megatron peers through the security bars, a smile gracing his features at my flippant response.

“No?” He tilts his helm, “but I suppose it could be worse...” I can easily read between the lines, his warning is clear, but it is not an option I can take, not yet.

“It could be.” I keep my tone even, accepting nothing, offering nothing.

“Things could be improved.” He finally says into the silence that has gathered.

At what cost? Nothing that I would want. “Unless you plan to repaint in orange I doubt it.”

A half smile forms before he inclines his helm the tiniest fraction, respect perhaps, does it matter? He knows I won't speak unless he makes me. He is silent as he turns away, leaving me alone to brood.

I have no idea how long it is before a couple of smaller framed mechs enter, my chronometer was disabled alongside everything else. One of the mechs I have been expecting, the other, not so much.

“Our Lord said that you aren't going to talk.” A red optical band gleams as he peers through the bars.

“Not anything he wants to hear.” I reply as I clamber to my feet, settling my weight. I might not have my weapons but that doesn't mean I can't take them offline.

“I wouldn't try that if I was you.” One hand motions to his companion before he lowers the bars to the cell.

I wince as he closes the distance between us, amusement rippling through his field, excitement chasing after it as he takes a last step, metal brushing against metal as I hold myself still. It would be so very easy to reach up, so many different ways to send him offline, the door to my cell is open, freedom so slagging close.

But I can't take it.

He removes a set of cuffs from his subspace, dangling them from one finger, his other hand trailing up my armour and I can't help the twitch, a flick of my armour to shake him off, it only makes him laugh again.

Cold metal wraps around my wrist and the click of the first cuff closing is loud. He pushes my arms backwards, circling my frame till he is behind my frame and the second click seals my fate. 

“More fool you.” He whispers in my audio unit, energy field curling around mine, anticipation growing like a wild beast, hungry for more. “You Autobots are far too sentimental.” The slither of a chain unfurling makes me turn till a hand stops me, a soft touch against my shoulder, an unspoken message and I freeze, willing my venting to remain even. A brush of fingers upon my own and then the chill of metal links as they are threaded through the cuffs. “Against the wall.” It is phrased almost like a request, almost, the slightest tug lets me know there is no choice as he pulls the chain tighter.

It is not at all comfortable, although that would be the point and I twist my frame trying to find some give, but he is no amateur. If I tilt my helm back I can see the hook high on the wall, a tantalising image, but far out of my reach. The other end of the chain trails on the floor, unattached to anything, all I would need to do is slip the links free of the cuffs... except for the lock I can feel if I stretch and contort. Such a small thing keeping my arms pulled up, my shoulder joints are already protesting the unnatural angle and I hiss as my fingers barely brush against the smooth bolt that is curled around my cuffs and through one of the chain links.

“Now now, you have no mech but yourself to blame for being in this position.” His warmth settles against my frame as he leans in, a hand stroking across one cheek in a mockery of a lovers caress.

I reset my optics, not sure when I turned them off.

Of course, no choice at all. “Go frag yourself.” I snarl , flaring my armour as I shift my weight, pushing him away, not far enough, off the planet wouldn't be far enough, but at least he isn't draped against me, emotions battering against my own.

His companions quiet laughter catches my attention , but he doesn't seem to mind my attention wandering as he wanders over to the bars between the cells, leaning against them the same way he did against me. They don't say anything aloud, but then why would they with a Gestalt bond? Whatever they are talking about it is probably nothing good and Swindle smirks as he finally moves away from First Aid's prone form, returning his pistol to subspace before he saunters out.

“Just us now Medic.” My shudder at the unholy glee swirling in his field only makes him happier as he pulls something out of his subspace.

I can't help the instinctive reaction to lean backwards as he flicks the laser scalpel on, the low hum echoing in the room as he reaches up, the heat stopping at my neck. Not close enough to cut, nor is the setting high enough to do any real damage, but it would only take a flick of one digit to ramp it up, set it high enough to slice through armour with no real effort.

Sliding the blade across to one shoulder, my paint peeling in it's wake, he regards me through a bright optical band. We are opposites, yet at the same time we are on equal ground. If he ever wanted to I know Vortex could be a medic, the same way I could break a mech. Torturer, medic, we both know a mech's systems back to front, knowing how not to cause pain, also brings knowledge of how to do the opposite. Knowing how to put a mech together, means the ability to take a mech apart is also there.

He leans in, pushing his frame against mine, anticipation curling through his field, glee swirling as he catches my revulsion. I hiss as he flicks the power up, paint literally evaporating under the heat as he slides the edge into the seam between my collar and shoulder plating.

Even with the sensors dialled down as far as they will go, medical over-rides locking them down so I don't lose my focus and let them send more data than they have to, it hurts. Red hot pain as he slowly moves the blade, carefully, almost gentle as he removes only the armour, and then it stops, the utter lack of feeling where he has removed the armour and underlying sensor net is bliss.

Putting the scalpel back into subspace and stepping back he holds up his prize, the white armour gleaming as he sets it to one side. “We wouldn't want your friends to think we had extinguished you.” He says as he returns to my side, one hand cupping the side of my face, “so, I'll send them a little present.” He laughs as he pulls his hand back, energon welling where my denta latched on before he wrenched his finger out of range. “Now, now, that wasn't very nice.”

I snarl at him, tasting his energon on my lip. Bring it.

He reaches up to my shoulder and I am vaguely amused to notice that he is keeping out of biting range now as he tugs on wiring exposed to his fingers through the gap in my armour. I can't begin to guess what he is looking for as he roots around, a quick log of my systems doesn't come up with anything critical. Until the world lurches, my tanks rolling as the ground no longer seems to be below and I press backwards. The wall at my back is a constant pressure, my wildly flailing processor locking onto that fact. I manage not to purge by pure force of will as I override my processors insistence that I am not upright, forcefully re-routing pressure data from where my feet are firmly planted on the floor.

Gyroscope. Fragging glitched up slagger. I raise my helm to glare, aware that it must look more like a grimace as my tanks roll again as a wave of vertigo washes through me. Holding up an energon coated piece of metal, he laughs and I belatedly register the pain, the sudden loss of an entire piece of hardware flashing warnings across my vision before even more pop up to tell me about energon leaks. 

“You know there are a lot of things in there that you don't need.” Vortex says as he crumples the metal in his hand. “I can keep taking them out of you, one by one, until you tell me that you've lowered your firewalls.” Like Pit. And let him pull out anything and everything I know from my memory core?

“I can tell you that if you open your data port, loop the wire around your arm and plug it in you can complete a well known phrase.” His optics narrow, the shutters partially closing as he glares at me. “Sorry, thought you might know that one, go frag yourself?”

Vortex chuckles, “So that would be a continue as I was then? I was hoping you might say that. Some mechs break far too easily. It's nice to have a challenge.” He reaches up again, his fingers ghosting across my armour, his electromagnetic field a study in concentration. “I've always admired your frame type. You have so many redundant systems it's like a work of art. But once you are aware of what is extra hardware, you also know what is actually part of your frame.” He taps at a panel covering one of my hips. He doesn't need to say any more, I know just as well that only my own systems lie under that piece of armour.

He trails his hand downwards, I hiss, the wiring where I tore off plating to keep Hot Spot functional still exposed. He doesn't let me move away, his fingers twining into wiring, anchoring me in place as his fingers brush up against my main thigh strut. His fingers wiggle deeper into my leg, wrapping around the strut and I shut down as many of the sensors as I can. Vortex abruptly lets go and his amusement is easy to pick up as he basks in my surprise. The slag?

“Pain.” He croons as he stands back up, pressing himself against me, “Pain can be controlled.” Fingers ghost across my chevron. “What good will breaking your frame apart do if you can barely feel it?” He moves on, searching my frame for something.

“Frag you.” Latches on plating are no obstacle to a laser scalpel. He flips the blade back into subspace with a flourish. The loss of yet more armour isn't a problem, after all, he was right, with my sensors dialled down as far as they can go that was painful, but nothing that would force me to submit to his terms. No, that section of armour was covering my medical access port. Opening data ports is an intimate thing, done only to close friends or lovers (or of course to a medic).

'Vulnerable', my systems whisper, 'having a port permanently accessible is a risk'. But there is nothing I can do about that except log the warnings and shove them aside. It's not like the slagger is planning to install a replacement cover any time soon.

I know my firewalls will hold if they try to create a data link. Not even Soundwave could hack his way through medical grade firewalls without opening himself up to some form of retaliation. In my case I may not like hacking another mech, but it slagging well doesn't mean I'm no good at it, nor that I won't do it if I have too.

No, Vortex is many things, however stupid is not one of them. He is planning something, I'm just not sure what yet.

Unless... No. Oh no slagging way. I clench my denta, focusing all my processing power on locking down my classified files, sealing and firewalling the folders against even myself. Without the correct passcodes to bring the firewalls down I'll have to fight through them like any other mech. Without the correct codes I'll automatically set off a virus that will erase whatever I am hiding. Vortex will be counting on me being able to focus enough to recall the codes.

Focus is something I may soon lack. 

Vortex tilts his helm, his rotors quivering. “You know what this is?” He ignores my ineffectual kick, dodging it with ease. The needle he is holding slipping under my armour, easily finding an energon line.

The effects are almost immediate. A rush of heat, burning its way across my sensor net, every sensor becoming hyperaware, each one straining for the smallest amount of data. Small things normally ignored as a background hum suddenly important.

Oh, yes. I know what this is. Syk. A form of circuit booster. Addictive and dangerous.

But that doesn't seem to matter too much any more. The soft wash of the ocean through the hull is hypnotic, the tick and grind of systems loud. I can hear my own fuel pump, the erratic beat echoing around my frame. I vent atmosphere, my fans kicking on as automated systems inform me I am too hot, overheating, burning. Am I on fire? Apparently not, or so my query says, however I'm not so sure. My frame feels really hot. However my HUD says I'm not so I don't have to worry because it tells me everything I need to know. It's far too bright. I don't know how I missed that, I have to dial the sensors down.

There's a mech watching me. I have no idea who he is. My memory files aren't where they should be, or maybe I just can't access them? I should know who he is. It's at the edge of my mind, and then gone. It can't be important. If he's here then he must know me. If he knows me he must be a friend. I think.

It doesn't matter anyway.

I have to smile back when his blast mask retracts, the edges of his mouth turned upwards into a grin.

The click of a data connection is swiftly followed by the feel of unfamiliar coding rooting its way into my processor. It's a strange feeling, like a glitchmouse crawling through my circuits.

**Shhh, it's just me.**

Oh. I knew that. Who else would it be?

His helm is nice. Shiny. A deep shade of blue, like sapphires from Earth. That must be where I am. **Yes, you're on Earth.** That's good to know. Earth is home. I think somewhere else was home, somewhere, I don't know.

 **The Ark is home** The Ark. That sounds right. Orange. Lots of orange. They must have repainted because it's not orange here. **You can remember the Ark?** Of course I can remember the Ark, I have a big room there. My room. Lots of berths. **The medical bay.** Is that what it is called? It might be.

 **Mechs come and see you in there.** They do. I do... Something. And then they are all good. **Can you show me how you make it all good.** It's not that difficult, I just... I have no idea. I don't know what I do. I should know this! **It's okay, you can tell me.** No. I can't! It's not there. I'm missing bits of me. Maybe I dropped them? Can you even do that? I must have done. **No, it's in there, you just need to find it.** If I can't find it then it obviously isn't important

The blue and violet mech makes a sound of frustration. I want to tell him that it's all right but my vocaliser doesn't want to work correctly. Nor do my arms so I can't give him a hug. **Slag you!** The foreign code is abruptly gone and I shake my helm. That... didn't help. The ground is rising up. Or am I falling? I wish I could tell. Whichever it is my tanks don't like it. At all. That's not good.

At least my friend managed to get to one side before I purged. And I feel much better now. The ground has stopped moving. It's still bright in here. Red. It's really, really red. The light that is. And I can still hear water. Maybe we are flooding.

I would tell my companion, but I think he already knows, he's looking really irritated. “I'm not g... o get an...ing f... ou am I?” I, you, what? He needs to get his vocaliser checked.

I can't hear the water any more. It was sort of soothing. 

Pain blossoms in my shoulder. It's not me though. Well it is and I should be worried. I know that. I stare at... Vortex? “...an't h... you drif...ng off.” I have no idea what he wants.

At least I've remembered his designation now.

Light burns. A door opened? Yes, and light is spilling in, sickly yellow, I liked the red better.

It takes effort to lift my helm, and even more to focus my optics. The figure silhouetted in the doorway remains indistinct, my vision refusing to focus.

“Have ... ot th... rmour? Sk...p needs ...ver it.” Static washes out half the sentence, leaving me unsure what they are talking about.

“Yea … ight here. I still need to … ather a bi... om Fir... id.” Vortex replies, moving around the cell before handing the mech whatever he just picked up.

“Get the oth... iece as soo... s you can.” The shadowy figure doesn't waste any time, turning and sweeping out, something small clutched in his hand.

Silence descends as he stares after the mech, he appears to be deep in thought and I let my helm drop, taking the chance to dismiss the warnings queuing for my attention that I have been ruthlessly putting aside. Rebooting my major senses, optics, audials, my entire slagging sensor net. That was a bad plan as every gear feels like it has been straining for hours against a greater force and I ache down to my struts. 

Me energon tank rumbles at me, protesting the lack of energy in my systems and my processing is muted, like I've downgraded into a drones frame. At least I know who _I_ am now. _Why_ I am here.

“I've just had an idea.” I ignore Vortex, I'm not about to ask him to elaborate, that would be far too close to begging, and there is no slagging way I will do that. “You don't want to know?” I don't bother dignifying that with an answer. I'll probably end up finding out what the fragger has thought up anyway. “You see, I've just realised you're not my only prisoner..”

That does get my attention as I jerk my helm up, the room spinning as I try to narrow my focus back to Vortex as he leaves my cell. I tense, fingers curling around the chain as he picks First Aid up and returns, laying him gently onto the ground in front of me.

Flicking the laser scalpel out he slides it into a seam along Aid's arm. Slowly increasing the power until the armour glows as the metal melts. It seems to take far longer than it did for him to remove my armour.

“Feel free to tell me to stop at any time.” The chunk of armour clatters across the floor, lost in the darkness.

“You want to make me talk, come back and make me.” I growl, tugging at the chain, heedless of the energon I can slowly feel dripping from a torn line in my wrist.

Vortex smiles as his hands wander over First Aid's armour. “I'm comfortable here.”

“Come and get comfortable over here instead.” The rattling chain is a mocking sound in my audios as Vortex ignores me. “Leave him alone.” He pries a data port open, sliding his connector home.

With First Aid in stasis his memory files and personality core are inaccessible, Vortex can't pull out anything of any use. His hands slide lower, over shoulder and down his chest, settling above his spark, tracing the armour seams. Realisation is not slow to come. He can still access autonomic functions through a link. Slagging creation of a glitch. Has he no morals at all?

No, that's a futile question, of course he hasn't.

“Are you sure you don't want to give me access to your firewalls?” I turn my helm away, one life for all those still on the Ark is not something I can accept.

“On your spark be it.” He says as First Aid's armour folds away, baring his spark. I am just glad he's offline, energy will be the only thing transferred. He won't remember the touch of Vortex's spark on his.

“Such a pretty little thing. Even better than I imagined.” Vortex says as he swirls a finger around the edge of the spark casing, energy flickering up to meet his hand. “Do you think he's ever bared his spark to anyone? Or am I the first?”

His own armour slides apart as he lowers his frame, “Oh yeah, so responsive, I wonder how much better he'd be if I brought him out of stasis?” Vortex shudders as their coronas mix his fingers tightening on First Aid's shoulders. “Oh yeah, you're missing out you know. He's just so young and full of life. So much energy just waiting to be used. Just _begging_ to be used.”

I can see the charge flaring, jumping and discharging between their frames. It won't be long before it builds to a high enough level that it will discharge to the floor instead of to the more conductive armour. “Vortex! Let him go!” Something tears in my shoulder as I fight the chains, the shock echoing down my arm as it becomes unresponsive. Errors scrawl across my HUD warning me of imminent shut down.

I suppress them, re-routing power and locking down subroutines with medical over-rides. It's not enough. I just don't have enough power. My last vision is of Vortex raising his helm to smirk as me, satisfaction wrapped around him like a cloak.

* * *

Hastily written emergency subroutines drag me out of stasis lock, the soft murmur of voices audible. “He online?” The voice isn't one I am expecting and my first thought is that Vortex has brought another mech to help.

“Barely.” That wasn't the insane interrogator either though as the footsteps cross the cell. “Slagging glitch.” The curse is quiet as a scan washes over my frame and the footsteps cease nearby. “Don't try and get your optics online just yet.”

I know that voice and I lift my helm slightly, tracking any sounds as he steps closer, warm venting blowing over my plating “Hook?” my vocaliser hitches, his designation coming out amongst a buzz of static.

He doesn't answer aloud, he doesn't need to as his field brushes against my own. “I need you to drink this.”

“No.” Not a chance, does he really think I'll fall for that?

“It's just energon. You're approaching critical levels.” I can't help the rough chuckle that escapes me. Really? I wouldn't have noticed, what with the huge amounts of flashing alerts all clamouring for my attention. And it's not so much that I don't trust him, as much as it is: he's a Decepticon and I'm and Autobot _prisoner_ so I don't trust him _right_ now.

“If you won't drink it I will manually refuel you, and you know exactly how unpleasant that is.” This time when the lip of the cube bumps against my mouth I don't fight it, letting him slowly feed me. When he pulls it away my energon levels are still low, however my processor is no longer shutting down my auxiliary systems to conserve my core functions.

I power up my optics, blearily watching Hook as he patches up my shoulder. He isn't taking any great care to avoid causing me more pain, but nor is he intentionally causing more. His touch is light, professional, competent and I hold as still as I can. He might be a Decepticon and he might not primarily be a medic but he still has some of the coding, enough at least that he won't intentionally damage those he is meant to be repairing. At least, he won't damage anybody as long as it isn't permanently detrimental. Improvements that require damage to implement are a minor detail of semantics to him.

Finished he gives me an inscrutable look, pity perhaps? Then again that would be out of character. We've run across each other enough times on the battlefield to have come to a mutual understanding with each other. As long as we are both performing our medical function we will ignore the faction lines. On the other hand, Scrapper's look as Hook rejoins him near the door is pity mixed with disgust before they are gone, leaving me alone. Well, almost alone, First Aid is still offline though and I sink back into recharge to conserve as much of my new power as I can.

* * *

For a moment I am sure that Vortex has removed First Aid, until I register the low hum of an energy field at my feet. My apprentice is curled into a huddled ball of metal and I lock my joints so I don't shift and wake him. How he managed to move without setting off my alerts I have no idea.

In the light from the corridor I easily recognise the outline of a rotary mech as he steps in. “Good morning Ratchet” He says as he slips into our cell, moving straight over to us, to First Aid huddled at my feet.

First Aid shifts as he wakes before he stills completely for a long moment before shifting his frame away from Vortex. “Now, now, you didn't try and escape yesterday.” Vortex smirks, his field filled with predatory lust and self satisfaction and I feel First Aid press into my legs, a faint whimper escapes him as his field flares with horror.

I can't help myself as I put my back against the wall, lashing out with as much strength as I can. The wash of grey across my vision and the sensation of free-falling as my processor protests the sudden movement well worth it.

Vortex growls at me, one hand rising to check the damage before he laughs, the sound filled with static.. “Hit a nerve did I?” He lowers himself back down to speak directly to First Aid “I don't suppose Ratchet has told you that I gave him a chance to tell me to stop.”

Gave me a chance? I almost laugh at that. The glitching slagger knew that I wouldn't stop him. He fragging well _knew_ I couldn't stop him. I shift my weight, ignoring the tilt of the cell as I focus on the rusted spawn of Unicron smirking at me. First Aid leans back, understanding seeping through his field as he rests a shaky hand onto my foot and I force my field into a semblance of serenity.

“Come here.” Vortex says and I am proud that First Aid stays put, not moving even as Vortex pulls his gun out and takes aim. Only at the last minute does he jerk it upwards and I am glad I still have my sensors turned down. Even a low powered plasma blast is not a pleasant feeling. “Come here or I'll shoot him again, and I won't have it on the lowest power setting.” Vortex warns, the gun audibly humming as he charges it again.

“Aid.” I say as he uses my frame to pull himself to his feet. “Slag it stay here.” He ignores me as he staggers across the cell.

“Good.” Vortex says, catching him in his arms and I pull at the chains again, not that I expected them to be any looser than they were a moment ago. But just watching the copter with his arms around my apprentice makes me angry. I have no idea what the slagger just said, it was too low for my audials but whatever it was First Aid agreed to it. I hate feeling so helpless. I should be the one protecting him.

“Excellent.” Vortex says, turning his helm to smirk at me before leaning into First Aid again. What he is doing becomes clear as Aid lies down and I pull harder at my bonds.

“Vortex you slagger, you want to hack somebody come and pick on me, you fragged up spawn of a rusted drone.” He ignores me, linking his data cable up with First Aid, concentration covering both their features. After a moment First Aid relaxes, a small smile crossing his features, only to be wiped away with, replaced with consternation.

I can see the moment First Aid works out what Vortex really wants, some part of me suspected as much, I just didn't want to accept that the 'Con would sink so low. “Tell me you want it.” Vortex smirks and I thrash, ignoring the whirl of the cell as if spins and the static dimming my vision, I want to tear the slagger apart.

“I...”First Aid vocaliser clicks as he resets it as he looks my direction momentarily. “I want it.”

“Good. I wouldn't want to think I was forcing you.”The fragger turns his helm back to me. “I've told you Ratchet, you want me to stop, you know what I want.” He pauses for a long moment before he turns back to Aid. “Open your spark chamber.”

“No.”

“No?” Oh, but I can hear the warning in that tone.

“I can't.” His voice shakes as he trembles, his optics bright in fear.

“Oh, I think you can.” Vortex flicks his gaze in my direction. “Either you open up or I'll rip it off.” He presses his hands down, the creak of stressed metal loud above the harsh venting and the rattle of my chain.

“Sadistic slagging glitched up rusty motherboard. Cog sucking fragger.” It is a good thing Cybertronians don't need to stop to breathe as I switch languages as soon as I run out of curses in my native tongue.

I know it's not helping, but it's making me feel slightly better. It would be a cowards way out to turn my optics off and to dial down my audial feed, to pretend that I'm back in the Ark. No, it's my duty to watch. I'm the reason he is being subjected to this. I will at least have the honour to watch.

Even if seeing him cringe in pain even as static flashes across Aid's armour makes me want to purge what little energon I have left as Vortex forces him in such a vile way. I will watch because it's the most I can do. It is _all_ I can slagging do.

I am glad when he overloads, the charge racing across his frame, because that means it's over. He might get a respite. Vortex might come back to me. Yet he ignores me , not rising as I expected him to. He shifts his frame around, pinning one of First Aid's hands down, slowly uncurling the fingers. He looks up at me, pulling his laser scalpel out of his subspace pocket with a flourish, making a show of moving it to the hand he is holding captive.

I dimly register my own fingers denting my palms as I clench my fists. Sadistic glitch is enjoying this, not just causing physical pain, but my reaction as well. He enjoys knowing that I want nothing more than to rip his spark out, to the Pit with my medical coding.

Aid's armour glows as the blade cuts through metal like it is low grade plastic. I can't do anything except grit my denta and endure as Aid's scream echoes around the cell. It trails off into static and my spark twists at the torture in his voice as he pleads with Vortex to stop. The rotary makes a show of holding up the armour he has liberated as First Aid curls around his hand, a small mercy that his processor shuts down into emergency stasis almost immediately.

He dumps the armour into his subspace as he approaches me and I can't help pressing myself backwards as he makes a show of looking over my frame. “Your turn now.” His visor glints as his gaze settles.

I refuse to give him any satisfaction as I mute my vocaliser. It doesn't even phase him as he simply unspools his data cable and plugs in. His scalpel blade skims across my chevron and I tense, pulling away from the heat across such sensitive metal. Eventually I have nowhere to go, my helm pressed against the wall.

Anticipation surges from Vortex as he presses closer, blade biting into my chevron as he shears the tip off. I can already feel the steady slide of energon leaking from the capillaries that should feed the dense sensor net in my chevron.

“Got the pieces yet or are you still too busy playing around?” The world lurches (I'm almost getting used to that feeling) as I look towards the door. There is a mech lounging against one wall and the red glow reflecting of a broad polished frame can only be a seeker.

“Here.” Vortex tosses the chunk of my chevron towards the seeker who curses, catching it before making a exclamation of disgust as he holds it between two fingers. A second item, pulled from Vortex's subspace is also thrown and it receives similar treatment.

“Next time, could you possibly wash them?” The seeker snarls, stalking out when Vortex just shrugs.

“We'll try again tomorrow, you might have more to say to me by then.” Vortex smiles, “Have a good night.”

There is something in his farewell that makes me suspicious. If it was any other mech I'd have considered it sarcasm. Vortex though? The glitch sounded pretty sincere. On the other hand Vortex definition of 'good' is most likely no where near mine. He unlinks his cable, nudging at Aid with a pede as he goes past, sauntering out of the cell without a care in the world.

I settle down as best I can, setting my scans to automatically run and alert me to any change in First Aid's status, before initiating my recharge protocols.

A faint tap, tap, tap wakes me, the repetitive sound accompanied by the vibrations of a soft impact against my chest. They stop as I power up my optics. My defragmentation cycle hasn't even started so it can't have been long, without my chronometer though I can't do any better than a guess.

Red optics peer at me, in the darkness I can't make out who they belong to, not that it truly matters as I understand exactly what Vortex meant. Have a good night indeed. With a mech around to keep me online there is little chance of that.

* * *

I am going to slowly strip Vortex's rotors from his frame and shove them so far down his intakes that the sun won't shine on them. I'm going to do it slowly, and painfully and I'll enjoy every scrap forsaken moment of it. The far too cheerful copter smirks from outside the cell, half a cube of energon in his hand as he dismisses my night guard. “Rest well?” He asks as he enters. He connects up to me, leaning against me as he finishes off his cube, the scent wafting across my olfactory sensors, my processor letting me know in no uncertain terms that energon would be nice.

 **Like a sparkling.** I reply to his question. 

**Good, good. You going to drop your firewalls today?**

**Not a chance.**

He pushes at my firewalls **You sure about that?**

 **Force the connection and I will delete everything.** It is no idle threat, I would rather commit virtual suicide than allow Vortex to get hold of information that could see the entire Autobot army laid low.

 **Oh, I know.** There is a faint tinge of annoyance that is quickly replaced by happiness again. The quick changing, mercurial nature of his energy field keeping me guessing as his emotions shift too often for me to get a good read on. **Don't worry, I called some friends to come help with that. They might change your mind.**

Every optic is turned on First Aid as he twitches, the whirr and hum of systems coming out of standby loud in the sudden silence.

Amusement pulses from Vortex alongside a vague echo-thought-sensation from another link and Brawl steps forward

“So, 'Tex says you're a good frag.” The tank purrs, his voice a low of excitement.

 **Oh yeah, a real good frag.** Vortex whispers to me. **How many mechs do you think he can handle? I bet you've coddled him haven't you? A few mechs and he'll be begging you for mercy.**

“You're thinking too much.” Brawl admonishes as he pins Aid to the ground and I hiss at Vortex's admiration for such a show of strength. It seems far too long before Brawl stiffens, overloading with a harsh cry.

“Heh, 'Tex was right, you are a good little frag.” I ignore them both. I can't slagging stop it anyway.

“If you want him to lie back and take it I suppose.” Astrotrain taunts as he steps forward. “Come over here.” He curls one hand in a come hither gesture as he leans back against the wall, Blitzwing watching with a smirk from next to him

Aid glances in our direction and Vortex waves him onwards. It only takes the triple changer one hand to keep him pressed tightly against his frame, the other rubbing circles between his shoulder struts. I turn my helm away as First Aid reaches upwards, gently stroking over armour before shakily dipping into a joint. **Now, now, none of that.** Vortex admonishes as he wraps a hand around my chevron, the jagged edge flaring anew as he touches it. He turns my helm back, **You watch or I get angry.**

 **You are so glitched up you should have been sent to the smelters long ago.**

**Perhaps I should.** He chuckles in my mind. **You're trying to distract yourself. Do I need to give you a description of what's happening just in case you get too busy insulting me? Lets see, Your young medic is looking very enthusiastic today, Astrotrain isn't even holding him in place. Look at him, stroking over those sensors like the little whore he is. I bet he's enjoying himself. Feeling the rising charge in his partners frame, the joy at bringing him to overload. Oh yeah, I think he chose to do this because he enjoys it. A little medic whore, d'you think he opens his ports for the rest of the Autobots like this?**

I wish there was something I could give to Vortex. Anything. He would know if I create fake files though. We both know how to make them, therefore we both know how to recognise them. If there was another way... No. If there was another way I would have taken it long ago. Much as I _hate_ this, it is the lesser of two evils.

Drag Strip and Wildrider have linked their own cables as they play with his frame, but thankfully not to Aid, both of them getting off on having another mech to hurt.

“He's watching me.” The voice is anxious, almost scared and I belatedly identify the speaker as Breakdown.

“So?” Drag Strip asks as he shoots a glance at his team mate that clearly says 'get over it'.

“So I don't like it.” Breakdown replies.

“Do something about it then.” Vortex interrupts. **They won't be as refined about it as I would but I'm sure it'll hurt just as much**

Drag Strip tilts his helm as he flicks his optics between Vortex and Breakdown before he grabs hold of First Aid's chin. As Wildrider moves round to his helm the anticipation from Vortex is almost unbearable as I force myself not to react. His pleading cutting to my spark as he attempts to throw Drag Strip off his back.

“You should have thought of that before.” Wildrider is almost tender as he presses his hand against First Aid's face.

 **Oh yeah.** Vortex says as a scream cuts through the cell and my fingers dig into my own palms, denting the sensitive metal.

 **You're a slagging glitched up fragger.** He just laughs, amusement roiling in his field.

 **Yeah, everybody says it. I like it.**

The two Decepticons are being even less gentle, if that is possible, and I shudder, my vents hitching every time Aid flinches, unable to avoid both of them without being able to see what they plan to do next.

“Come on pet, scream for me.” Drag Strip says as he pries First Aids hand out from under his frame. He does scream as the slagger grabs hold of it right where Vortex removed the armour. **You sure you don't want me to stop them?** Vortex asks, all polite solicitousness.

I ignore him. What can I say?

“Much better.” Drag Strip praises as energy curls around both their frames and I am glad that they will overload, glad because it means they at least will be done. Relief floods me as they finally step away. Is that it? Are they all done? Primus I hope so. Another cycle and they will have had time to change all the codes, another day and I can give in without the knowledge that I've traded the entire army for one mech.

I barely notice another mech joining us until Vortex points him out. **Oh good, Counterpunch does like a good frag.** “You're late, expected to see you in here as soon as I comm'd you.” He says aloud to the dark blue and copper mech as he approaches.

The newcomer doesn't look impressed as he shoots a foul look in Vortex's direction as he growls “I was on duty.” He shoots an appreciative look in First Aid's direction though, his foul mood quickly clearing.

“You wanting a go now that you're here then 'Punch?” **I hope he is, he always puts on a good show.**

“Of course.” Counterpunch's entire frame language is predatory as he drops to his knees above First Aid. He wastes no time in drawing his data cable out and in my mind Vortex snickers. **I've had an idea.**

“Give it to him.” Vortex interrupts and Counterpunch gives us a surprised glance that is quickly changed into amusement as he pushes it at one of the Protectobots hands. I can almost feel the war within his processor as his hand shakes as he lifts the connector before he plugs it in.

 **Still not going to let me in?** Vortex asks, prodding against my outer firewalls. **There are enough of us that we can keep using him till he deactivates. What would you tell his gestalt then? That you let us evil Decepticons 'face him because _you_ wouldn't stop us?**

“Pretty little medic like you should do this more often.” I glare at Counterpunch as he causes First Aid to shy away from him, his hand scraping on the floor as he forgets it is injured. “Keeping us all in good working order. Isn't that what you're programmed to do?”

 **Not like this.** I make sure that thought is loud and clear in my mind for Vortex to pick up, not that the psychotic glitch will care.

“Open up.” Counterpunch isn't going to be satisfied with a simple data link and I curse, haven't they made him suffer enough already

“Please. Don't make me...”

“That wasn't an option medic.” Both the 'Cons hands are over his spark chamber as if to rip it open if First Aid doesn't trigger it himself. As soon as it is revealed, one blue hand lowers towards the exposed spark and energy crackles around it.

“Don't. Please don't make me, please, I'll do anything else, anything” It is so quiet, a plea that won't work and I feel another part of myself extinguish. Counterpunch isn't going to stop and I _can't_ stop him.

I shudder as the slagger plays with him. They will all melt in the Pit. All of them, slowly and painfully and I'll enjoy every minute just as they are enjoying this.

Another overload and Vortex chuckles **Well, look at that, all offline. Don't worry, we'll be back tomorrow.** He looks up, his attention distracted as he receives a comm call. **Well, seems we've got a use for you. One of your little friends managed to hit Skywarp, fragger should have warped out quicker. Anyway, you get the job of repairing him.** He unclips his data line, the abrupt change making my systems reel as his presence is abruptly cut off.

The 'Cons clear out in high spirits as Brawl and Vortex unchain me. I stumble, knees buckling as my frame is able to change positions for the first time in a few cycles. Brawl just hauls me up again, dragging me further out into the centre of the cell. Close enough to see to Aid if Vortex wasn't in the way. I sink back to my knees as soon as Brawl stops holding me up.

“You really think this is a good plan?” Brawl asks, scepticism rolling through his field. “He'll probably miss something important and offline him.”

Vortex snorts softly, “In which case I offline his apprentice.”

Skywarp arrives in a burst of compressed air as he displaces the atmosphere at his arrival point. Energon is running from his torso and he is quick to place himself in front of me. I stare blankly at him for a moment. What do they expect me to do? Panic ripples through my frame before I suppress it and Skywarp pulls back, suddenly unsure. I can't fix him, I don't have any of my tools!

It takes Vortex literally waving something in front of my optics to snap me out of the surge of panic that was enveloping me. Metal slaps into my palm as I take it. Only, 'it' is not a single thing but several more common supplies, all well used and well cared for.

All fitted for a slightly smaller hand. Medical tools that have probably never seen a medical use before now. I set to work, the injury is messy yes, but not as bad as it looks. Skywarp must have warped out as soon as he saw the blast heading his way and only caught the leading edge. It doesn't take long to seal off all the leaks and realign metal plating, but it does take all my concentration as the borders of the blast mark are wavering, my vision straining to stay focussed on the delicate work.

“Good mech. Looks like you bought your apprentice another day.” Vortex praises as he takes possession of his tools and Brawl hauls me back over to the wall. I don't have the strength to fight as Vortex refastens the cuffs with a deft efficiency, chains clicking back into position. I slump in place, my processor reeling from the motion. I vaguely keep track of them, Skywarp long gone in another burst of air and Vortex and Brawl leave quickly, jostling playfully with each other as a smaller Decepticon slips in and I know he is here to keep me awake. I can already feel my processing threads tangling, the lack of a good defragment starting to show.

I flick a scan over First Aid, he's not getting any better, his self repair unable to keep up with his injuries while he is also underfueled. Another day may just extinguish him.

I don't think I can hold out much longer.

I'm not sure I want to.


	5. Dum vita est spes est - Interlude II - Mirage

::Meister. I'm in position:: The comm is but a whisper in our receivers, almost silent, only the fact that it is internal setting it aside from the ambient noise of the Nemesis. Even now after so many vorns of war it feels strange to not simultaneously transmit glyphs as well as the vocalised communication. It leaves words flat with no honest inflection, no real tone. That is something I was raised to never do, not having the courtesy to use glyphs in a civilised conversation to correctly emphasize concepts was considered the height of vulgarity.

::Oscillate, we're almost with you.:: Jazz's response is equally quiet, a short band transmission not meant to travel beyond this corridor and definitely not to be picked up by a certain mech to whom the word encryption means nothing. Every transmission within the Nemesis is a risk with Soundwave around, better to use it only when necessary.

The Decepticon lurking at the end of the corridor makes no movement, not even a flinch, as Jazz drops out of a vent to land with a soft thud behind him. The Decepticons fingers flicker, clenching into a fist before uncurling, twitching: _'All clear. Surveillance removed.'_

Jazz sidles up to him _'good work'_ his hand says.

The dark blue helm nods once, an acknowledgement of the praise before he responds. _'Situation: not good_.'

Jazz's visor darkens at that as the Decepticon shifts, twisting into a new form before he steps forwards, the door sliding open at his approach.

The cells of the Nemesis are shrouded in darkness as the door shuts behind us, the shimmer of the energy bars on the closest cell lighting up our destination with a soft ominous glow. Punch lowers them from the main terminal, security encryptions no barrier for him.

Jazz's curse as he steps in is almost inaudible, but simply from long association I can tell from the flare of his armour and the faint high whine of active weaponry that he is angry. As he moves aside I cannot blame him for letting his emotions over-ride mission protocols for an instant. The scent of internal fluids is heavy in the air, the sickly scent of spilt energon and coolant mixing. And at least it doesn't all belong to Autobots, the Decepticon guard is propped up in one corner, his frame grey and already quite cool to infra-red. Punch's work no doubt.

They are both offline, for that I am both glad and dismayed, for moving will no doubt be agony, but moving two offline mechs without drawing attention will be a difficult task for only three of us given that none of us have large frames.

“Penumbra.” Jazz's voice is quiet, but filled with the simple expectation that I will be at his side. “Get Aid up to the Tower.” He pulls his hands away from the Protectobot, energon staining his palms a faint lilac as he motions me forwards.

“Ratchet?” I ask as I decloak, gathering First Aid into my arms as gently as I can.

“Not as badly off. He's been repaired at some point.” Punch says as he finishes looking him over and sets to work on the chains holding him.

“I'm calling for extraction. Wait as long as you can for us. If we don't arrive abort and get yourself and Aid out.” Part of me wants to protest, yet I know that remaining with Jazz and Punch as they get Ratchet out will put us at a greater risk of all being recaptured. I nod at Jazz, acknowledging his orders before I reset my cloak, phasing back out of view, Punch's soft, “stay safe.” following me out.

I am almost at the Tower when my comm line lights up with a highly encrypted and focussed transmission.  
::Dreamer, Stargazer, respond - Meister here: mission critical, require distraction and pickup.:: It will not be enough to keep it secret from Soundwave though, Jazz is taking a huge risk sending that out. The Decepticon communication specialist will know we are here and will know the transmission came from his ship. It will be a race now for him to decrypt it and work out what we asked for and for us to get out.

::Meister - Dreamer: acknowledged, Speedbird and co dispatched, Highflight on route.:: Prowl certainly wastes no time, his response is almost immediate, although he has no doubt been awaiting any communication from us. Nor does he waste any time in assigning mechs to assist us.

::Meister - Stargazer: condition?:: It takes me a moment to work out what is wrong with that query: the sender is Prime. That is usually Ratchet's question as he attempts to ascertain how badly off his patients might be.

::Stargazer - Penumbra: Redcross critical, Caduceus stable.:: The faint drip of energon that has seeped through the seams in my armour and the cracked sparkcasing I can feel pressed against my own pushing me to respond before Jazz can.

It seems to be an age before the comm line activates again ::Meister, Penumbra - Highflight: approaching extraction point.:: That was not entirely what I wished to hear. We will only get one chance at this, once I activate the Tower controls the Decepticons will know where I am. They will converge on my position and block the way. I will effectively trap Jazz on board.

::Highflight - Penumbra: acknowledged.:: If he is sticking to our pre-arranged signals and timings then I know exactly how long I have before I have to activate the Tower to be in position.

I do not believe it will be long enough.

Watching my chronometer click down I finally step up onto the lift, I _have_ to go. Weapon fire stills my hand as the door opens, either the Decepticons are coming to block off our escape route or... yes. I lay First Aid down as gently as I can, retrieving my rifle from subspace as I decloak, my aim unwaveringly aimed at the still empty doorway behind Jazz and Punch.

Curses filter through as a louder boom rolls out from the corridor alongside a cloud of rapidly expanding smoke as Punch hauls Ratchet onto the lift. Jazz is crouched down at the edge, another grenade ready to go even as I slap my palm down on the controls as soon as we are all in.

“Good timing.” Skyfire says, arriving almost as we do. Gathering First Aid into my arms again I hop up into Skyfire's hold hold, strapping the young medic down in case we have to do any evasive manoeuvring.

“Go Sky.” Jazz orders and Skyfire wastes no time in getting away from the Tower. “Can you drop down to water level?”

“Sure?” Skyfire sounds confused as he dips his nose down, losing altitude until we are barely skimming the surface of the ocean.

“Open up.” The whistle of air echoes through the hold and I flicker my fingers in farewell and thanks at Punch, our voices lost in the rush of wind. He responds in kind before hurling himself out. He will have to work his way back to the Nemesis underwater, but it should not be too hard given that we have several impromptu entrances that have not yet been found, reported and sealed up.

“Head for home.” Jazz says once the door has closed and we can hear each other speaking again, “and Skyfire?”

“Yes Jazz.”

His voice could melt glaciers as he rests one hand on the nearest bulkhead. “You didn't see that mech and you won't mention him in your report.”

The shuttle's engine stutters for a fraction of a second. “Which mech would that be?”

Reaching out to pat the wall Jazz nods towards the front of the shuttle. This is not the first time Skyfire has pulled us out and will not be the last. Nor will it be the last time we need him to keep something quiet for us until we are able to wipe it from his mind. Some secrets are just too dangerous for too many mechs to know.


	6. Cura te ipsum - Hoist

The door into medbay opens and I frown when nobody enters only to nearly jump out of my armour as Mirage drops his cloaking field, an energon covered frame cradled in his arms. He doesn't even get a chance to speak as I usher him into one of the two isolation wards I had got set up. My first scans have already washed over them. I've already worked out that he needs immediate help.

“Ratchet?” I ask as Mirage lays First Aid out on the berth.

“Skyfire's bringing him in, Jazz is keeping the corridors empty, he's not as badly off.”

I nod at that. Good thinking on Jazz's part. The rest of the crew doesn't need to see that. “Wheeljack, go wait for Ratchet and do what you can.” I wave the engineer out from where he was hovering uncertainly in the doorway. “Mirage, stay.” He's already seen the damage, he might as well make himself useful as a second pair of hands.

I point him towards Aid's shoulder, instructing him to clean the wound. The Decepticon prison isn't the most hygienic of places and even a small trace of rust can turn into a full blown infection. 

I can feel my systems shutting down erroneous processing threads, narrowing my focus to my patient. Analysis from the deep scans is queuing up, urgent repairs at the tops, all the way down to cosmetic touch ups. It is the first of the immediate problems which I turn my attention to. His energon levels are low, very low. Setting up a transfusion I insert the lines directly to one of his main lines in his neck. His spark and his processor need the energy most, it would be little use to put it into on of his limbs and have half of it lost before it reaches his core.

The preprocessed medical grade slowly raises his levels, the whine of the monitor on the wall falling to a steady beeping. Flipping another piece of armour out of the way I gain access to his primary coolant pump, putting it offline. The sluggish flow of coolant comes to a stop and the support machines beeps, slowly recording the rising core temperature. “Teletraan, lower room temperature by fifteen degrees.” The drop is noticeable almost immediately and the machine levels off, the faint blip settling back into a slow rhythm from its frantic beeping a moment ago.

Across the berth Mirage clamps his armour tighter to his frame, a shiver working it's way around his frame. “I couldn't see any failures in the pump.”

“There weren't.” I flick a hand towards the injury he is cleaning. “If I add more coolant it'll just leak out there and get into the energon flow and that will make him purge now that he's got more than a few dregs left in his energon tank.”

“Ah.” Mirage says with a grimace. Just about every mech on board the Ark has had coolant poisoning at some point in the war. It's not the most pleasant experience. Either for the patient or for the medics. And even less so when the patient is in stasis. “What about energon in his coolant lines?”

“As long as his pump is offline it's not important. I'll do a complete flush of his coolant system before bringing it back online. Here, clamp off as many of the lines as you can.” He takes the box I am holding out and sets to work without another word. He's neither as quick nor as precise as a medic, however his basic medical training is enough to get the job done correctly.

Shoulder under control for the moment I move to work on his hand. I take the sensor net offline at his wrist, even in the unlikely scenario that he wakes before I bring him out of stasis he isn't going to feel it. The larger leaks are sealed off, the smaller ones are just too fiddly to try and seal efficiently, once his self repair is online (hopefully soon with the energon transfusion) they'll be sealed by his nanites.

“Hoist?” Mirage asks as I still, just staring. I wave him away as I map out the damage. The entire sensor net in his palm has been ripped apart, them raw edges no doubt short circuiting in a continuous painful loop until he had dropped offline. I can see the edges of gears and struts and the tiny transformation cogs which power our integrated tools. I'll have to replace it all, it can wait, with the leaks sealed it's not an urgent repair just time intensive.

I move on to his chest, easing the armour out of the way. Despite the rend in the outer plating the inner casing has held up well. Only a faint fracture marring the surface. Of course I knew that the tear hadn't extended through the inner casing since his spark containment has been holding steady. The small fall being attributed to the low energy levels since his emergency systems would have kicked in feeding what little energy remained to his spark and processor above anything else.

Transforming my smallest welder out of subspace I gently ease his chamber open, watching for any signs of malfunction as it spirals out of the way, baring his spark to me. It all looks good except for the faint grind as the fracture passes over smooth metal. Gently tracing the edges of the fracture with the welder I let them heat, resealing the injury. I ignore the flare of his spark as tendrils curl upwards, dancing over my fingers and flickering around the heat of the welder. I file of the edges, careful to catch all the scrap metal before it drops into his chamber and it is a relief when I test the closing mechanism and find that it slides shut without a problem. I push the outer armour back into place, it isn't pretty, but with the underlying layer repaired the outer is merely cosmetic.

Stretching my back struts out I hear my hydraulics hiss and whine as they release the pressure built up while I've been bending over in one position. ::You okay 'Jack?:: I ask the engineer. ::I've got Aid stable enough to leave if I have to.::

::Nothing right now. I could use your assistance once you're done though. Some of this will require specialist tools.::

::Acknowledged.:: I reply before I sign off. I know exactly what he means about specialised tools as I transform a small set of tweezers from one of my fingers. Thankfully he looks to have been facing downwards when his optics were broken. That doesn't make it much better I suppose, except that there are very few shards of glass and crystal left. I dig them out, analysing the wiring and the results are enough that I heave a small sigh of relief. None of the wiring has been frayed and the focusing mounts are still in place. It's simply a case of fabricating new focusing lenses. For now though I grab a visor, nothing fancy like his normal medical version, just a basic one which will give him enough data to move around without crashing into things.

“I'm done.” Mirage says as he dumps the unused clamps back into the box.

“Keep an optic on his vitals.” I tell him as I move into the space he has just vacated. He grabs a stool and seats himself next to the monitor as I start to piece together the correct lines so that I can splice them together. It wouldn't do any good to attach a line taking fresh energon from his tanks to one meant to be removing processed energon.

I have no idea how long I spend separating them all, I'm refusing to look at my chronometer. “You able to stay here and continue to monitor?” I ask when I have reconnected as much as I can.

Mirage tilts his helm, the faint buzz of comm traffic flitting past my energy field before he inclines his helm. “Jazz says my report can wait until you have seen to them both.”

“I nod, stretching my joints and cables before striding to the door. It slides shut behind me with a faint whoosh and I have to suppress the urge to turn around and complete the repairs, my coding insisting that I am leaving the job unfinished. Which I am. Our coding just isn't made for war and the inevitable overload of patients. Emergency response and triage medics who used to staff the wards where mechs were first brought in had specialised coding. For them, stabilising a mech is their goal, not completely healing them.

“Well?” I draw up short as I almost run into a mech, the sharp spiky edges of an agitated EM field pressing against me. “Can we go in?”

“Not now Blades.” His rotors rattle, clattering as his field pulses with anger, his plating lifting as he steps closer.

Whatever he is about to say is cut off by his name being called, the terse glyphs catching his attention and I use the moment to slip around him, heading for the cleansing station. “Go back to Hot Spot. Hoist'll let ya know when ya can go in.”

“I want to see him now.” Blades pushes, the violent rumble of his engine audible from all the way over here as I let the cleanser wash through my hands.

“And I am telling you to return to Hot Spot before I have you thrown in the brig so that you are out of the way.” Jazz's voice is sharp as I pull my hands out of the bowl, the stream of cleanser automatically shutting off as I grab a clean rag to dry my hands. There is none of the easy third in command in Jazz's posture, Streetwise can see that as he tugs at Blades' arm, no doubt communicating over their gestalt link. The copter capitulates with a shudder that flows over his armour, before he turns back to Hot Spot's room, Streetwise close behind, a hand resting on his rotor hub in a gesture of comfort.

“You promise you'll let us know as soon as we can see him.”

“Yes. You'll be the first ones in.” Groove nods at that, weighing up my words, before I close the distance between us, wrapping him into my field and my arms, letting my sincerity and conviction soothe him. “Go on. It'll be another recharge cycle before I'm done. Try and get some rest.”

He increases the pressure of the hug for a moment before untangling himself, slipping back into the room without a backward glance. “Thank you.” I say to Jazz once the door has closed.

I don't hear him move, yet the edges of his field brush over mine, brushing away my gratitude as inconsequential. “I do what I can Hoist.” I bask in the warmth of his field, in the strength and faith in my abilities for a long moment before striding towards Ratchet's room.

Wheeljack gives me a grateful glance when I enter, pulling his hands out of Ratchet's internals to let me take over. “Apparently turning things off wasn't enough.” I frown as I follow his fingers and the connections he had been working on, pulling up a quick blueprint of Ratchet's schematics to see what is missing.

I write up a quick list, sending Wheeljack to the storeroom to find what we have available. Better to get them all reintegrated as soon as possible. I'd prefer to have any new components settled before I bring Ratchet out of stasis. I already know he's one of the worst patients, he'll try and get up well before he should, despite knowing and understanding exactly what the monitors are saying.

I take the new gyroscope from Wheeljack before he disappears to find the next item on my list and I focus on the job. It looks like it's going to be easier than I thought to reattach and I thank Primus for at least one thing in my favour. The edges of the gash where the old one was ripped out have been sealed, and not that recently. Hook's work no doubt. I never thought I'd be grateful for his repairs (they must be his, he's the only medic the Decepticons currently have on the planet). They are the only reason Ratchet's still online. If he had been left he'd have bled out back in the cells of the Nemesis.

I am surprised to see Prime as I leave Ratchet's room, and by leave I do mean almost walk into. He steadies me as I reel, his apology washing over me as I lean against his frame. Blearily I notice Prowl is at his shoulder, peering at me with a distinct amount more concern than he normally shows and movement in the corner turns out to be Jazz and Mirage. I blink my optics, processing strands informing me that something about that should be a cause for alarm.

Skyfire is watching First Aid.” Jazz reassures me before I can work out _why_ I am panicking. That's fine. Good even. He's already seen the extent of the damage and isn't a mech given to gossip.

Prime steers me into the office, gently pushing me down and I all but collapse into the chair. I hide my shaking hands from his view under the desk as he and Prowl sit down on the other side. Jazz and Mirage lingering by the door.

“Damage?” Prime asks. I shouldn't be surprised, he always checks up on his troops, it's just another thing that slipped my processor.

Putting all the injuries into clinical terms doesn't help, my processor flashing images files at me to accompany each one. At the end of the list Prime nods slowly. “Unless it's a matter of deactivation that calls you back in here, get some rest Hoist.”

“Sir.” I protest, I have far too much to do to take any time to recharge.

He stands, moving around the desk until I have to tilt my helm back to keep him in view. “That's an order Hoist.” His engine rumbles gently as he kneels. “You have just said yourself that they are in deep stasis and shouldn't come out until you wake them. Use the time to recharge and refuel.” One of his hands rests over mine, stilling the tremble I can't suppress. His field extends, brushing against mine and I can't help leaning towards him, soaking in the strength surrounding me.

Pushing himself to his feet, he extends his hand towards me. I let him haul me up and guide me out of the office. I draw the line at leaving the medbay though. If anything happens I want. No. _Need_ to be close by. My quarters, no matter that they are only around the corner are too far away for my coding's liking. Prime protests, giving my arm a gentle tug until Prowl intervenes, his soft query 'does it matter where he recharges as long as he does so?' reassuring Prime into letting go of me.

I clamber up onto the nearest berth, my systems cycling down as soon as I am horizontal. I'll have to remember to thank Prowl some time, even if he will claim that it was simply a logical solution.

* * *

Medbay is empty when I cycle back up, except for Skyfire's bulk sprawled on the biggest medberth, is engine idling gently in recharge. I check on Hot Spot first, he's nearly ready to be let out, the new armour across his chest fully integrated into his systems and the welds nearly invisible.

Ratchet's room is dark, lit only by the monitors and a bright band of sapphire. “Nothing's changed.”

“Jazz. Where's Wheeljack?” I ask, unsurprised that they have switched watchers, I was out for a while as my systems reset.

“Right here.” He accompanies his words with raising the lights slightly so that I can make out the engineers slumped form in a chair in the corner.

“I'm going to continue work on Aid. Let me know if Ratchet shows any sign of waking.”

Jazz nods. “Will do.”

I am expecting Mirage, so it is a surprise to find myself being regarded over a datapad. Sensor panels twitch ever so slightly. “Do you require my presence or would you rather be left alone to work?”

I'm not sure working with Prowl watching over my shoulder will do my concentration any good, yet not having to keep some of my processing power focussed on the monitors will be appreciated. “Stay if you will and keep an optic on the monitors.” The pad is tucked away as I pull up my own chair and lower the berth so that I can comfortably work with Aid's hand in my lap.

I can't help the brief rattle of my plating as I transform my laser scalpel out of subspace. The tool leaves a distinctive edge behind and it seems somewhat ironic that I am using the same thing that caused the damage to do the repairs. It can't be helped though, I need to remove the damaged components before I can do anything else and this is the most efficient way to do so.

The small box I placed on the berth slowly fills as I remove anything non functional, leaving behind only the working parts. It's even worse than I first thought. I've had to completely remove over half of his integrated tools. They are all still in tact since they were safely stored in subspace, but the small transformation cogs which allow him to select and pull out the right ones have had to come out.

It is slow work, bracing the struts in each finger and reseating gears, then new transformation cogs, then outwards, reweaving the sensor net back together. Each small filament in the net holding and powering a long line of sensors. It is hard enough to repair normally in an average mech, hands even more so for the density of sensors is higher. Medics though, we have far more than most mechs, and my frame creaks when I finally sit up. My optics blurring as they reset from the intense magnification I had been using.

“You should take a break.” Prowl says and I shake my helm.

“I've only got the armour work left right now.” Prowl nods in acquiescence, trusting me to not overwork myself.

The chest is an easy weld job, the shoulder will take a little more work as it will need a new piece cutting and shaping. I'd also like to get his chromonanites reactivated and the colour restored before I let his gestalt in. Prowl flinches as I power up my saw, his wings twitching in discomfort for the grind of metal is not a pleasant one and only long exposure stops me from cringing with him.

* * *

Blades and Groove are waiting again as I step out, armour quivering with barely restrained tension. “He's in deep stasis, do not try and wake him.” They both nod, Blades looking ready to knock me out and power over my offline frame. They are at his berthside as soon as I step aside, neither of them paying any attention to Prowl as the tactician relinquishes his chair and steps out with a nod to me.

Hands are hovering over Aid's offline form, neither of them sure if they are allowed to touch until Blades smooths his hand over his brothers cheek. A faint whine escaping his vocaliser as he hunches forwards. I feel like I shouldn't be here, intruding on something private, even from the doorway where I am making sure they are taking my warning to spark.

The silence stretches, although I am unsure if they are speaking over their link. It is Groove who finally breaks the silence as he gets up, “I'm going back to Spot so that Streets can come in.” Blades nods once, clearly not moving anytime soon as he keeps hold of the hand clasped in his own. The uninjured one I am glad to see, although there is little difference now.

Streetwise settles in with a low rev of his engine, reaching out to run his hand over the nearest shoulder, tracing the weld lines. “When will he be online?”

“Once I've run a deep processor scan.”

He nods at that, such a check is standard procedure to look for corrupted coding, virus' or any other sign of tampering. “You'll do it soon?”

“As soon as I can, he was low on energon when he was brought back.”

::Hoist, your machines are telling me Ratchet's coming out of stasis.::

“I'll be in Ratchet's room, you need anything, you comm me. If Aid starts to wake I need to know immediately.” Two sets of serious optics lock with mine and they nod.

* * *

I suppose it was asking too much that Ratchet remain in stasis while I ran my deep scans. As it is he meets my optics with such a look of disgust as soon as he realises what I have entered with that Jazz chuckles and Prowl behind me can't stop the upward turn of his mouth. Yet he doesn't protest, not as I plug in the datapad to his medical port, nor to Jazz securing his arms to the berth. Standard procedure for any mech coming back from enemy captivity.

“Prowl said I had to ask you about Aid.” I give the Praxian a quick glance. Of course he said that.

“They got him back in one piece and he's not in any danger of going offline from his injuries.” I don't bother to try and mislead him. Ratchet's had more practice at telling worried team-mates what they need to hear rather than what they want to hear that he'd see through any attempts by myself to do the same to him.

“Good.” He says, letting the subject drop for now.

The pad bleeps as it completes each scan and I will it to hurry up as it returns results. Nothing out of the ordinary. But that is just the easy part. The automated scans were looking for anything which could be a danger to _me_. I unplug the datapad, replacing it with my own cable, turning my attention inwards with only a small portion of my processing threads dedicated to keeping me aware of what is happening around my frame. My systems sync easily to Ratchet's, long association letting the mental link form almost without thought, his firewalls dropping to give me access. Not so for Jazz as he too connects to a secondary port. I feel Ratchet suppressing the instinctive reaction to throw him out and slam his firewalls back into place.

Unfortunately for Ratchet, Jazz's presence is required. Most mechs can get away with just a medic connecting as their own skills at coding are rarely better than ours. The chance of doing irreparable damage to ones own processor keep most mechs from attempting anything unless they have a instructor. Of course some mechs do see that as a challenge, most of them are in Jazz's division. In this case however the problem is that Ratchet is a better coder than I am, hence the double connection, what I miss, Jazz will hopefully pick up.

He keeps his firewalls down as I skim over his code, matching it to what I have on record. Only one section catches my attention, but it doesn't bother Jazz who moves on and I realise it must be ops coding. I always forget Ratch has quite a bit of ops codes buried in his processor. I don't think he realises that I know just how deep he is with the Intel division. The coding is well hidden, almost invisible, unless you've known somebody as long as I've known him. I don't ask, the less I know, the less of a risk I am.

“All clean.” I finally say as once I have pulled out of his processor, and returned my attention back to myself.

“So I can get up?” Ratchet asks as Prowl releases him.

“Not a chance, you know exactly how long it takes to reset a replacement gyroscope.” He huffs at me but makes no further protest. I didn't think he would. Spending several orns with the world spinning because his new gyroscope hasn't calibrated correctly would be even less fun than spending longer in a berth now. 

It doesn't take long for him to cycle down into recharge again and I use the time to reactivate the rest of his systems that had been simply locked down rather than the replacing I had been doing earlier. I barely notice when Prowl slips out with a datapad with the results of the scan on it and Jazz settles back into the chair.

They are all easy enough to reconnect, it's merely a case of re-soldering a few disconnected wires. However, while the comm link is simple, the transformation cogs are a nightmare. Better than having to replace them all as I've had to with Aid, but still annoying as slag as I have to go through each one to double check the connection. And Ratchet has a lot of transformation sequences. Even more than I do. Main alternative transport mode, thirty seven separate medical transformations, (from the smallest screwdriver all the way up to his strut saw) and integrated weaponry.

Ratchet shifts slightly and I flick my glance up to the monitor, taking in the various readouts. None of them indicated that I would suddenly find myself up against the wall, his strut saw idling next to the softer metal at my throat.

“Hoist?” His field fluctuates wildly, cycling through a dizzying array of emotions. Rage, fear, hope, relief, all fading into suspicion and fear ripples through it again. “Vortex.”

“Ratchet, it's Hoist, you're on the Ark.”

His optics flicker slightly before he looks around, settling for a moment on Jazz before back to me, his saw blade never wavering. “You expect me to believe that?” He scoffs. “You're in _my_ mind Decepticon. You didn't expect me to remain chained did you?”

::Hoist:: Jazz's comm is frantic, ::He thinks this is a set up in his processor.::

That makes my coolant freeze and my spark skip a beat. Of course, I've had mechs come out of recharge having forgotten that they're in the medbay, but the sight of Autobots around them is enough to convince them they are safe. Ratchet though, he wasn't on a battlefield. He had been in a Decepticon cell with an interrogator who was known to use mental manipulation to get what he wanted.

If he thinks this is a virtual reality, then he will think that myself and Jazz are merely avatars that they are using to try and lure him into a false sense of hope. Well, avatars are merely virtual representations of another presence logged into a processor. Killing an avatar won't kill the mech, merely force them into an abrupt disconnect. Except we aren't avatars and we aren't in his mind.

My optics shift to focus on Jazz, I have no idea what to say to convince him we're not Decepticons. I don't deal with this sort of thing. Not usually.

::Let him hook up to you.:: Jazz instructs and I shiver. Let him? I feel my vents hitch in apprehension.

“Ratchet. I _am_ Hoist. See for yourself.” I open my medical port, slowly and carefully tilting my helm aside, mindful of the still revving saw.

He frowns, saw blade stilling as he thinks that through, his suspicion heavy against my field. There is no warning before he moves. I end up on my knees, no longer against the wall because Ratchet is now behind me, one arm looped around my neck, pulling me back against his frame. He uses the other to plug in, and I stare at Jazz, hoping he is sure about this working even as much of my attention turns inwards.

I am barely able to lower my shields before he hacks through them, wasting no time as he aims for my memory core, carefully pulling memories we both share, testing them against his own. Memory files can be faked, it is hard though and there is always something missing, the emotions flatter, more detached.

He withdraws as quickly as he sought entry, his saw flipping back into subspace as he presses his fingers against my throat where it was just resting. “Where's Aid?” His field pulses with a tangle of emotion, urgency lacing his tone despite having already asked the same question when he first woke up, “please tell me you found him?”

“He's safe.” I say, wrapping my arms around his waist as he staggers, guiding him back to the berth, “he's safe.” He nods as his optics dull and I heave a sigh of relief as he slips back into recharge.

I drop into the chair beside the berth as soon as he is fully under, propping my helm with my arms as I try to ignore the ache in my processor from the less than gentle assault.

“You okay Hoist?” Jazz asks and I am unsurprised to find him crouched next to me. “He probably won't even remember that.”

“I'll be fine.” I reassure him, glad that he doesn't push me for a better answer.

* * *

I lean against the wall as I take a few deep vents, letting them out slowly. Good news, Ratchet managed to stay in recharge for the rest of the night cycle and I've just managed to send him off rather unsteadily with Skyfire to rest in his own quarters.

Potentially good news, First Aid is out of stasis, on the other hand the not so good news is that he's ignoring every one, even his gestalt brothers.

Bad news, I've got to bring Hot Spot out of deep stasis and explain all of this to him.

I was going to get his check-up done and then sit him down to tell him what's happened. Seems I made a slight miscalculation and forgot about the gestalt bond. Of course the first thing he had done once he was coherent had been to ping his team. Blades, Groove and Streetwise had been banished from underfoot (with some help from Prowl and a direct order. As far as I know he's got them on monitor duty and will keep them there until I've finished.) but they no doubt will have responded to the query. First Aid obviously did not.

I place a hand on his shoulder to stop his agitated trembling. I know he wants to go and check on Aid, but I have to get the results of these scans back first. “There. Everything is holding and the micro-fracture is barely showing up on scans any more.” Hot Spot raises a hand to his chest, running it over the now invisible rend in his spark chamber. “Go ahead and close up.” His armour slips smoothly into place.

“I'm good to go then?”

:”You're good.” I reply before switching to my commlink to continue as I catch sight of the object of his request standing in the doorway to his room. ::He's behind you. I'll be in my office.:: I didn't want to scare Aid off, not when he'd finally made a move towards rejoining the living rather than refusing to interact with any of us.

* * *

This is... uncomfortable. I had so much I wanted to say, yet I can't find any way to start a conversation. The silence is stretching between us and eventually I use the excuse of having pads to tackle to get out of the main medbay.

Safe in the office I slump down in the chair, pulling the first pad closer. It's never felt so uncomfortable before, almost like we are strangers. I had hoped things would go back to normal. Or at least, closer to normal than this. I knew it wouldn't be exactly as it was. It's just, I've never seen Ratchet so quiet and I have no idea how to help. Psychological Analysis programming was never anything I had been interesting in getting.

For that matter none of the mechs on board have that type of programming. They all think that Smokescreen does, but I know full well that what he has is an illegal patched together program which as a medic I should have purged long ago if not for this war. It's all we have now though and I'm glad that myself and Ratchet decided to leave it just in case. Not that I expect Ratchet will willingly set foot in Smokescreen's office now that he's been cleared for light duties and thus the mandatory counselling sessions are over.

I can't concentrate on my pad and I peer out the door, watching him as he busies himself with inventory, his helm bent in concentration as he counts and organises. I shake my helm slightly. Normally he'd be cursing at the equipment if things weren't adding up and humming some old Cybertronian tune if they were.

* * *

::Hoist, I need you in the medbay:: I barely suppress the irritated ripple of my armour. I truly hadn't realised just how much slag Ratchet had to deal with. I have a new appreciation of why he grumbles about the padwork, the stack never seems to go down. At least with Ratchet returned to active duty some of the burden of covering shifts has been relieved. Now I am just waiting to clear Aid and for Ratchet to be able to take back the CMO position.

::On my way Jazz.:: I haul myself to my feet, subspacing the energon cube I had barely got to touch, I'll have to finish it in the medbay. I am expecting Jazz and Mirage having overdone it training again, not a sullen, angry Ratchet facing down Jazz.

“Slag you.” There is real hate in Ratchet's tone as he hisses that at Jazz and part of me screams that I should get out, that I am no match for either of these mechs.

“Jazz?” His field is suppressed, yet I catch the edges as I step up next to him, his ice cold anger close to making me flinch away. He doesn't need to say a thing as he holds up a vial of liquid. My automatic scans have already swept over it and identified the contents. It isn't hard to work out what Jazz must have interrupted.

I sink into the chair in the office, Jazz dragging one of the visitors seats to my side before he sits. I am wondering where to start when Ratchet speaks up. “You think I wanted this?” Disbelief echoes around us, the glyphs short and sharp as his energy field flickers outwards, uncontrolled.

“If you didn't, why did you start?” Jazz keeps his tone neutral, neither condemning nor encouraging.

“I didn't exactly have a choice.” He snarls back, his hands digging into the mesh padding on the armrests of the chair. His frame trembles as he chuckles, a harsh sound in the small office.

That makes a sickening kind of sense as I connect the dots. There is a soft invent beside me as Jazz reaches the same conclusion. “What did they give you?”

For a moment I doubt he will answer as he stares at his lap, then he looks up, his optics dulled. “Syk.”

Syk. Of all the glitched up things. From the fury rippling across Jazz's tightly contained field I have a hunch that some Decepticon is going to have a very bad time indeed.

“I was dealing with it just fine before you interfered.” Ratchet said with a glare at Jazz. “And if you don't give that back I'll be way off schedule.” I can feel the slight shock that runs through Jazz, and I admit to feeling it myself. Somehow I think we had both forgotten that he _is_ a medic and knows how to treat himself.

“Even if you manage to get off it though, the withdrawal isn't going to be fun.” Jazz says with a frown, I can all but hear the gears shifting in his processor. “Do you have to report this Hoist?”

“That would depend,” I say, keeping my optics on Jazz, after all, Ratchet knows the rules as well as I do, “If the patient is monitored to ensure they are not sneaking any extra doses in then I'd mark the file DODC-S and be done with it once they are fully weaned off it.”

“And without supervision?” Jazz asks.

It is Ratchet that answers, his tone glacial. “It gets written up as an addiction and would stop me from holding any rank higher than a junior medic.”

“So, if I were to take Ratchet into the SpecOps wing, would that count as supervision?” One clawed hand taps at the arm of the chair as Jazz waits for my response.

I stare at Jazz, wondering what he is up to before it hits me. Of course, nobody enters the Ops corridor unless they have authorisation. Part of me wants to deny the request as I have a feeling Jazz will allow Ratchet to determine his own treatment as long as he is kept informed and it is working. My coding doesn't approve of letting a patient self medicate. Yet at the same time I am know Ratchet. He probably knows how to deal with this even better than I do and it will be a weight of his shoulders to not have to worry about sneaking around and trying to hide the effects of withdrawal. “Yes. I think it would.”

The smile that curls at Ratchet's mouth as he too realises what Jazz has planned helps to ease my coding. Keeping him here wouldn't have helped.

Jazz nods to me in thanks as they leave and I see him casually toss the vial back to Ratchet. I ruthlessly suppress my coding as it flares up in protest, telling myself that it's not my problem, until my coding settles.

* * *

I don't think I can put into words just how glad I am that Ratchet has finally been cleared by Jazz and can retake his position of CMO. It has been far too long, of periodic updates from Jazz that never gave a time frame, of dealing with all the bureaucracy of command, of myself giving commands that I never wanted to be imparting.

I don't try and dull my EM fields as I clasp his forearm, pulling him into a gentle hug. There is a moment of resistance before I feel the shifting of armour as he takes the final step to press against me. His own field curls around mine, entwining in such a familiar way that I can't believe how much I've missed him.

Eventually I have to pull back, much as I'd like to stay like that, we have things to do. And possibly the most important... “Hot Spot's convinced First Aid to try combining. Are you going to come out and watch?” I can almost see him weighing it up in his processor. In the end he nods and I reach out to take one of his hands and tug him out of the medbay. I know they said they wouldn't start until I was there, just in case there was a problem, but that doesn't stop me from worrying.

Hot Spot gives me a quick grin and a wave when he notices me and the rest of the Protectobots abruptly glance over and I can see the anxiety and apprehension in Streetwise and Groove and the stubborn look is pure Blades. Hotspot nods to me and I feel Ratchet edge closer, his own uncertainty rolling through his field before he catches himself and modulates his field into a false calm.

Hot Spot's command is quiet and for a while I think they aren't going to form, that Hot Spot was wrong and this won't help as the four combine, their form almost curled around the last as if to protect him. First Aid shudders, his plating trembling as he raises a hand towards Defensor. It doesn't reach its destination as he shifts, transforming, joining. Defensor stays where he is for a long moment, unease radiating from his frame before it clears and he stands.

Beside me, Ratchet lets out a long vent of atmosphere, Aid must have let down his barriers to combine. I start slightly at the hand that winds its way around my arm, holding still as Ratchet presses against my side, his EM field calm and the pervasive guilt which has been rolling off him since we recovered them has been dulled down.

I untangle my arm, from his hold and wrap it around his waist, letting my own field push outwards to tangle with his. He smiles and for the first time in so long it actually reaches his optics as he leans into me.


	7. Fiat justitia  - Interlude III -  Jazz

I've rescued many a prisoner of war and I've seen mechs break, unable to return to _normal._ I've seen mechs turn to highgrade and drugs, it might feel like it helps, but it's a downward spiral. Relief overshadowed by the need. Each time the resistance builds and the effects lesson until there is nothing but that desperate need for _more_

And slag if I'm going to let Ratch end up a shadow of what he should be.

I can see the fine tremor in his hands as he tries to draw liquid out of the vial. The shake making him miss as he can't get the fine motor control that he needs to make the connection.

“You really don't want to do that.” He whirls around as my hand closes over the injector and vial, deftly removing them from his grasp.

“Jazz! Give that back.” Exasperation flows through both the vocal portion and the transmitted part as he holds out his hand.

“So you can continue trying to extinguish yourself? I think not.”

“If you hadn't noticed, I'm a medic, I know what I'm doing.”Annoyance tinges his field, glyphs an angry red as his entire frame trembles, this time in anger.

“I'm not convinced Ratch, if I call Hoist will he be able to tell me he authorised it?”

“Give it back,” he scowls, avoiding my question as he steps forward and I take a prudent step backwards. “Jazz. I _need_ that.” A fine tremor rattles his plating and his fists clench. “Jazz. Please.” His vision is focussed not on me, but the vial in my hand. Slag! How has nobody noticed this?

::Hoist, need you in the medbay.:: I really don't want to call Hoist as he'll have to log the incident. Drug use is a big mark on a file, enough so that Ratch may never regain his position of CMO. The alternative though? Let him slowly degrade his own coding until he can't perform his function anyway? That tremor won't get any better, only worse, no matter how often he increases his intake.

His optics focus on the door as it opens, a mech over-riding his lockdown. At the moment that means Prime, Hoist or somebody else hacking the lock like I did. His gaze swings back to me, his tone venomous. “Slag you!”

“Jazz?” Hoist asks as he moves up beside me. I hold up the vial rather than speak, sometimes words aren't needed.

* * *

I give Ratchet a sideways glance as we make our way through the base. I should have thought better of him than I did. But what was I expected to think? He goes on at Ops enough to disclose anything like this even if we don't want to that I came to the only reasonable conclusion.

I am glad it didn't take much to convince Hoist to let me deal with Ratch, poor mechs been run off his feet trying to keep the medbay running on his own. He was glad enough that trauma recovery is one of the things I have a good knowledge of it, my line of work, whether I like it or not, does tend to run that way on occasion.

“Stay in here or our small rec room,” he just nods at me as I open up a room, letting his frame sink onto the small berth with a hiss of hydraulics. He pulls the vial and injector out of his subspace and I step closer, taking them from him when he still can't get his hands to work as he wants. His glare is tempered by the need I can see lurking in his optics as they focus on the liquid as I draw the drug out of the vial and reach out, he flips one of his armour panels back before I can ask, giving me access to an energon line.

He relaxes as it enters his system, a slow settling of his systems as it makes it's way around his frame before the effects kick in, his venting increasing as his optics brighten. Speaking to him now will be pointless unless I want to keep repeating myself, we can talk later. Right now I have a few other things to arrange.

::Mirage?:: He should be on body guard duty with Prime right now and with any luck Prime will be doing padwork and Raj can give me his full attention. Or at least, near enough all his attention, he's too good an agent to be distracted from keeping his sensors on any possible disturbance that could extinguish Prime.

::Yes Commander?:: The response is formal given that he's on duty, yet also tinged with curiosity since _I'm not_ currently on shift.

::How do you feel about paying a visit to the Nemesis?:: There is a long silence and I can see him in my processor, his emotive facial plating conveying his thoughts like an unprotected datapad as he contemplates all the possible reasons I could have for asking that question.

::That would depend on exactly what we plan to do while on board:: he finally responds, a vague sense of anticipation lacing his transmission and I know his thoughts are paralleling my own.

::Payback:: I say, my glyphs tinged with my need for vengeance.

::I will be there:: I send back an acknowledgement of that before signing off.

Now all I need to do is recall Punch so that we can get a list of exactly who we are going after. And of course, to mislay the mission outline and request for permission. This is not something I'm willing to have Prime deny to suit his concepts of good and evil.


End file.
